


To the Moon

by JMonCheri



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Bittersweet Ending, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, Memory Alteration, Non-consensual Medical Procedures, Non-explicit character death, Romance, Secret Relationship, To the Moon Elements, Viktor dies old and ancient in this one don't worry he won't get run over by a truck, slight homophobia, viktuuri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-06 08:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11032470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JMonCheri/pseuds/JMonCheri
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov's last,literaldying wish is to get a gold medal.Yuri and Otabek figured it would be an easy goal to accomplish, until they figure out that Nikiforov was an Olympic figure skating champion with already a truck ton ofothergolden medals.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ FOR THOSE WHO DON'T KNOW THE GAME**
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> In the far future, there will be technology that can grant last wishes to those who are dying/elderly/etc. Simply by going inside the dying subject's memories and altering them so the person, in their last seconds of living, would believe that they lived a meaningful life and they have reached their goal... when in reality, it's all a simulation/dream created by the Butterfly Effect.
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> This must only be done when the patient is merely on their last thread of living. Once the subject is alive with their memories altered, their behavior will never be the same.
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>  **Sigmund Corp** \- a company that created this technology. Yuri and Otabek work under them.
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>  **Mementos** \- these are the little important belongings/souvenirs/etcetc that mean a lot to the subject. They can be used to hop throughout the memories. 
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> **Beta Blockers** \- they're like little amnesia pills. They can help you forget an event or a person or whatever. Mostly used on trauma victims.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Viktor?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“Viktor… It’s me.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov was ninety two and he was about to die.

 

“So this is the geezer, huh?”

 

Otabek gives him the Look ™, one that screamed nothing but ‘Yura please be nice’. It was a look that Otabek often gave him all the time, throughout the whole course of their partnership as magical wish granting genies shat out by corporate funds. Fortunately, their clients were too nice to think of them as that.

 

Most of the time. 

 

Yuri just huffs, wondering how his partner managed to be so inconsiderably polite on a regular basis before looking at the doctor for confirmation on what they were about to do.

 

The doctor nods. He’s old and graying himself, remnants of a red fringe evident on his grey locks. When he talks, Yuri sees the fanged little canines implanted on his dentures, now leaving an imprint on his gums. Maybe when he were younger, this doctor smiled and laughed and when he grinned his fanged teeth gleamed in the light.

 

“Mr. Nikiforov’s vitals are overall stable when I put him on support, but they’re showing signs of tremendous decrease in activity once I put him off.”

 

Otabek just hums, setting the last of the equipment down. Otabek always did the ‘carrying around bulky machinery’ part because he’s noticeably taller and manlier unlike Yuri, who looked like an anorexic skunk.

 

“We can have him connected on life support for only a certain amount of time, doc.” Otabek says as Yuri inspects the withering man. He was a deathly pale, white hair splayed on his gigantic forehead like a floppy pancake. It was the typical day job, something that Yuri has seen multiple times already. An old and fading man, wanting to fulfill one last wish, wanting to believe he had everything, before succumbing into death.

 

“But eventually the machines might interfere with our data collecting. So we’re going to have to hurry up.” Otabek says, facing Yuri. “Do we have to do a background check on him?”

 

Yuri shrugs. “We already have his information.” He faces Mila, Nikiforov’s caretaker, she had this bubblegum peach princess personality and Yuri knew the moment he entered this manor’s doors. “Is it alright if we look around? Maybe find some personal items of Mr. Nikiforov.”

 

Mila purses her lips, cocking her head. “Sure. But I think it’ll be a waste of time. Mr. Viktor never really had anything personal when he moved in, save except for his clothes and such.”

 

Yuri huffs. “Then let’s not. This is gonna be easy, isn’t it Beka? What does he want again?”

 

Otabek looks up from the machine to briefly flash a glance at his partner.

 

“He wants to get a gold medal.”

 

Mila and the doctor had this intrigued look on his face, the doctor most especially, with his copper eyes filling with confusion at the statement. Yuri doesn’t know why, but maybe this ancient medical practitioner knew more than what they thought…

 

Yuri nods, sitting on a nearby couch. Soft, plush, Yuri wanted to take a nap and get this over with. “It’ll be easy. What kind of athlete should he be, though? Or is he like… a brain athlete, or something.”

 

Otabek grunts. “We’ll just have to see when we dive in his brain.”

 

Mila gives them a questionable look, blue eyes curious and searching as she steps closer into the room.

 

“How… How do you guys do it? Like, grant wishes or something.”

 

Otabek, the nice man that he is, answers without looking up from his machine assembly procedure. “We enter the person’s inner temporal lobe, where it houses long term memories. We tamper with said memories, altering them so the person could have the figurative motivation to accomplish what they desired themselves, even if it’s only like a dream sequence.”

 

Mila stares, confused.

 

Yuri rolls his eyes, wondering how overly exorbitant his friend managed to be at times. “What he’s trying to say is that we jump in his memories and give him the desire to accomplish what he wants, then his brain does a butterfly effect and it all goes on from there. Then he replays his entire life, except this time he gets his goal, and he believes he lived a full and happy life.”

 

Mila nods in understanding, looking deep in thought. “How do you ‘give him the desire’?”

 

Otabek answers for him, thankfully. “We do minor altering, like maybe make him try swimming, or make him join the track and field, and he’ll realize that he wants to pursue his career, and he’ll work hard until he gets a gold medal.”

 

Mila nods in understanding. “Ah, I get it.” But something flickers in her eyes, a flash of confusion. “But… How do you delve into his mind? Just like that?”

 

Yuri shakes his head. “We can’t. It’ll damage his brain. Plus, it’s too easy. We have to go through his memories and try to figure out what sort of person he was.”

 

Yuri will never admit it, but he liked explaining things to people. It made him feel smart and wanted, not like the usual angry edgelord most of his colleagues passed him off as. It was a chance to prove to everyone that he was so much more.

 

The doctor coughs into his fist. “Shall we hurry up? Life support doesn’t last forever, you know.”

 

Yuri nods, standing from the couch. Otabek takes his place in front of the machine, helmet already on. Yuri once commented that he looked like a shoddier version of C3PO. “Let’s go, Yura. We don’t have much time.”

 

Yuri rolls his eyes, taking the seat next to Otabek, both of them sitting by the dying man’s bedside. “Yeah, yeah… Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

 

And when Yuri puts on the helmet, he figured it would be the everyday routine thing. They’ve done this so many times, seen so many secrets, delved into so many memories and each contract was a success. Patient wants to become a celebrity? Make them join a theatre at a young age. Patient wants to marry girl of dreams? Make him talk to his childhood crush and eventual perfect wife.

 

Patient wants a gold medal?

 

As Yuri sits back and lets the machine toss him through someone’s life, someone’s _past._

 

This’ll be a piece of cake.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is ninety two and he is making plans on his death.

 

It always starts out like this. Every time different, but still the same nonetheless.

 

Travelling through a person’s brain and memory is like jumping in a black and white photo. It can be loopy, like throwing yourself in a blender. It wasn’t a good experience, but Yuri and Otabek got used to it anyways. There were perks to it, like riding every roller coaster at Six Flags with ease while your friends die from vomiting or dizziness.

 

And the places were always different, somewhere unique, somewhere special, somewhere that gave Yuri and Otabek a distinct clue on who this person was…

 

They find themselves on a coastline.

 

It’s chilly and warm at the same time, like heaven and hell colliding. The sand was digging into their shoes, the seagulls overhead fly in a V formation, and Yuri inhales and smells something… sweet.

 

Something oddly out of place.

 

Yuri sniffs again, inhaling deeply.

 

Roses.

 

Yuri frowns, but he was thankful that it wasn’t anything horrid. Most patients always had a distinguishable smell; it’s purely based on luck whether it was good or bad. Yuri shudders, remembering that one patient they had who smelled like terrible Trench Foot.

 

Yuri sniffs again, feeling the flowery scent waft through his nose, and he tries not to sneeze.

 

Otabek materializes next to him in a flash. “Should we turn off interactivity for all except for Mr. Nikiforov?”

 

Mr. Nikiforov.

 

Yuri sees the form up ahead. Old and crooked, scarf whipping behind him with this standard cane, looking at the ocean like some dramatic action lead. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn’t. His long, silver hair was pulled back into a ponytail, whipping in the wind and glinting under the light.

 

Yuri shrugs. “If you want to. There’s no one here anyways.”

 

This was the beginning of it all, the last recognizable memory Nikiforov had before he agreed to sign the contract. The seagulls flew above in a perfect V, looking like olden aircrafts ready to rain bombs down on their unfortunate forms. Nikiforov stands there, unmoving; Yuri didn’t need to see his eyes but the young man felt like the older man was searching for something amongst the waves…

 

He starts approaching the figure by the waves, shoes burying into the sand with every step. He let out a sound of distaste at the feeling of sand sinking in his shoes, but Nikiforov does not budge.

 

“Yo, Mr. Nikiforov?” He says amidst the wind whipping around them, like a tornado, but a  _mini_ tornado. There were mini versions of things that Yuri like, like mini kittens or mini bagels, but a mini tornado isn’t one of them.

 

Nikiforov turns, ever so slightly, just to peek over his shoulder. Next to him, Otabek finally catches up and finds his place next to Yuri. He looked like an ancient, with eyes that showed decades worth of life.

 

It was a sight Yuri saw all the time. And yet it was a sight that Yuri hasn’t seen at all.

 

Nikiforov smiles, soft and tired. But he had a twinkle in his eyes. “Are you two those lackeys from Sigmund Corp?”

 

Yuri blinks.

 

Well.

 

That was… mildly unexpected.

 

“I… Uh, yes, sir.” Otabek says, ever so polite. “How do you know?”

 

Nikiforov turns, slow and a little stiff with the aid of his cane. Like an old clock ticking.  _Tick tock._ “The Corp sent me information about you both when I signed the contract. I never knew you both would come this early. Are you going to alter my memories already?”

 

Yuri cocks an eyebrow.

 

“We already have.”

 

Nikiforov blinks, eyes unmoving and still, like he was watching them warily but he held a tone of softness with him. Vulnerability.

 

“We’re already in your memory sequence, Mr. Nikiforov.” Otabek says, voice kempt and rehearsed. “You’ve already called us. You’ve already let us in your home. Now we’re going to fulfill your wish.”

 

Behind his eyelids, cloudy blue irises sit and inside them hold a silent storm, old and withered by age as they widen slowly with realization. Viktor takes a few shaky steps back; blue eyes flitting in between them both, his shoes kiss the edge of the waves-

 

“Are you…” Viktor says, gaze flying to the sand beyond. He looked oddly calm, but the guarded look in his eyes muddled with his surprised exterior.

 

“Are you going to get me a gold medal?”

 

They didn’t expect him to be so… accepting of it. No questions, no clarifications, no surprised exclamations.

 

Whatever made Nikiforov want a medal this badly… The drive must have been so excruciatingly large.

 

Yuri shoves his hands into his coat pockets, the wind chilly despite it being a coastline. “Not us. But  _you_  will.”

 

Viktor’s mouth parts, chapped lips in a little ‘o’. Like waiting for words to fly into his mouth themselves, but no words come.

 

Eventually, Viktor looks behind him, sees the vast ocean and sighs a little “I… I suppose so.”

 

Otabek clears his throat, squinting as the light hits his eyes. The sunlight kisses the clouds with grays and blues. “Mr. Nikiforov, we need to know why you want a gold medal.”

 

Viktor is silent, letting the ocean waves fill their ears.

 

It was like the ocean spoke for him, too bad the two didn’t understand water talk.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Viktor’s voice was surprisingly quiet but strong, unlike the same old wheezy breathy voice he had awhile ago. It was like a stronger, younger version of him possessed his body for a while and answered for him.

 

Yuri huffs, slumping a little. “[ **Well, I’m just hoping that he won’t be a pain in the ass**.]”

 

Otabek frowns at him, Yuri’s voice echoing through their private communication system. No entities in Nikiforov’s memory realm would be able to hear them if they wanted to. “[ **Yura, be patient. He’s old.** ]”

 

Yuri just crosses his arms. “We’ll need more than an ‘I don’t know’ for us to help you, Viktor.”

 

Viktor returns his gaze on them, eyes a little lost. Like they got shipwrecked in the sea.

 

 _Crash, crash_.

 

“I really don’t. I just…”

 

Yuri couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity. Nikiforov sounded lost, scared. He would be too, if he has a goal in mind with no real origins.

 

“I just want a gold medal.”

 

“[ **Did you do a background check on him? Does he have any psychological problems? Dementia? Alzheimer’s?** ]” Otabek’s voice echoes in his brain.

 

Yuri scowls. “[ **Of course I did. What do you think I am… unprofessional?** ]” Otabek scoffs, the sound echoes through his ear. “[ **He’s relatively normal, save except for low blood pressure. No records of any mental deformities**.]”

 

“B-But… If you’re going to help me get a medal, then I will try to cooperate as much as possible.” Viktor says, stoic and strong, the waves crash behind him, like they were agreeing to his proposition..

 

Otabek nods, gesturing for him and Yuri to step closer to the man. “We’ll find a way, Mr. Nikiforov. But we need your assistance.”

 

Yuri shoves his hands back into his coat pocket, feels the cold air slice through his flesh. “Do you have anything important to you? Like a small little trinket or… something.”

 

“A memento, sir.  _Anything_ that’s important to you.” Otabek says, using these little hand gestures. Yuri called him a magician once. Otabek swore that if he ever mentions anything magic related again he would dye Yuri’s cat pink.

 

Viktor thinks for a moment, deep in thought. Searching and searching, like looking through your old toy box and getting hit with old shots of nostalgia. Yuri could see the old cogs in his head turn, rusty and broken.  _Scrape, rattle._

After a few moments, Nikiforov stands fully up, poise perfected.

 

He pulls at the hair tie keeping his silver locks together, letting his hair loose.

 

Yuri is surprised when Viktor hands it to them.

 

“Are… Are you sure?” Otabek asks, staring at the offer with wide eyes.

 

Viktor chuckles, low and weak. “Yes.”

 

Yuri takes it. The dark garter was stretched and worn, the seams already falling apart. But it held together anyways. “A… A hair tie?”

 

Viktor smiles, sad and nostalgic and Yuri does not miss the dullness in his eyes, it was like a child letting go of his teddy bear. Yuri has never seen an old man look at a hair tie with so much affection before.

 

“Believe me, Сын. That hair tie is worth more to me than any other object I have.”

 

Otabek nods, solemnly. “We thank you, Mr. Nikiforov.” The Kazakh faces Yuri, eyes questioning. “[ **Should we imprint the memento in? I think-** ]”

 

“Aren’t you worried about your privacy?” Yuri asks, eyes narrowing a little at the old man, the sunlight giving his frail form a glow, ignoring Otabek’s question entirely. He wonders, wonders, wonders, why Nikiforov was so unknowing. Why he wasn’t afraid for his past secrets to be unveiled. Why he looked so… _lost_.

 

Viktor smiles, sad and weak, looking back at the ocean, then to them.

 

Yuri would never admit it, but he wanted to know why this man looked like he was looking for something he’d never find.

 

“I don’t care anymore.”

 

Before Yuri could say anything else, he gets whisked away.

 

Nikiforov is left alone on the sand.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is fifteen and he has single handedly made history.

 

“ **And now, we have Viktor Nikiforov, youngest known Short Program _and_ Free Skate record holder!**”

 

It was just like a little ant, gliding out onto ice. It was nothing but just a little insect, one that could be indistinguishable amidst a large crowd and could be easily crushed. That little ant could be anyone, you, your mom, your dog, your neighbor…

 

But the crowds cheer. They cheer as the tiny ant, looking untouchable amidst the ice, glides out and waves to the people like he was  _meant_ to be on top. His hair, silver and long and kept into a certain dark hair tie, whips behind him and perfectly matches his light blue costume.

 

Because everyone, even a tiny little ant, could bring the world to its knees.

 

“ **For his exhibition skate, he is skating to Carmen Suite No. 2: Habanera. Judging from his excitement, he obviously can’t wait to showcase his exhibition to the whole world!”**

**“We can’t blame him, Jim. It’s his second consecutive win at the Worlds, two gold medals and more than a handful of others from his other wins already under his belt! By the time he’s sixteen, he’ll probably be already on top of the world!”**

And the little ant skates, moves, glides across the ice and the people cheer for him, yell his name, idolize him. The ice screeches under his skates, kiss the golden blades on his feet. They all scream his name, wish to become like him, praise him…

 

Save except for two people.

 

“What the  _fuck_?” Yuri seethes, watching the show. He can’t say that he’s not mesmerized; the little ant moved like the music was forming wings on his back. Different versions of Nikiforov stray throughout the environment, like little projections, and it should be confusing but the pair is used to it.

 

Otabek hums, tapping his lip. “He looks like he’s already won a gold medal…”

 

Yuri gives him an incredulous look. “ _Looks_ like? Beka, didn’t you hear the announcers? He’s literally a  _record holder_.”

 

Otabek purses his lips, watching as Nikiforov launches into an impressive spin. Yuri just scowls besides him, frown looking like a permanent etch on his face. “He looks like he’s already a professional skater, probably got a whole other shelf of medals…”

 

“Then maybe he wants another one.” Otabek finishes. “Maybe he finished his career unwillingly, maybe he wants to skate one last time-“

 

“Possible.” Yuri says, he cringes when the crowds scream when Nikiforov lands a jump. It was rather impressive, but it was  _so fucking loud_. “But why doesn’t he know? Why does he have to pull an ‘oh I’m an old mysterious man and I don’t know where the fuck my goals come from’?”

 

Otabek shrugs. “He  _is_ old. Old people forget.”

 

“ _Still_. We’re going to have a hard time with this, Beka…” Yuri massaged a temple. He feels like he gains twenty years of age every time he works with a difficult subject.

 

They both jolt when Nikiforov glides off the ice, time seemingly passing, tired and sweaty but  _alive_. Oh so different from the tired, weak, vulnerable man by the sand. An old man, probably his coach, hands him his water bottle before they both head off into the backstage areas. Yuri and Otabek were hidden by their machines, making it unable for the memory entities of Nikiforov sense them.

 

Glancing at each other, Yuri and Otabek both follow the pair.

 

“You did well, Vitya.” The old man says, sounding like life has beaten him down multiple times already. “I couldn’t be any more-“

 

“Yeah, yeah, but Yakov!” Nikiforov jitters excitedly smile bright and silver strands of hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. “Is the costume in yet? Can I see? Can I see?!”

 

Yuri raises an eyebrow, he glances at Otabek.

 

Otabek just shrugs.

 

Yakov sighs, rubbing a temple. Yuri is reminded of himself, and wonders if he’s going to end up like this man one day. The thought terrifies him.

 

“I don’t get why you can’t wait until we come home-“

 

“I  _can’t._ Now come on, show me!”

 

Yakov rolls his eyes; Yuri wonders how an old man looked so bitter, before watching the old man hand a nearby clothing bag to Nikiforov.

 

Viktor opens it.

 

Squeals.

 

Yuri snickers as he feels Otabek jolt next to him. Nikiforov looks like some edgy teen girl from Tumblr, sipping on an old Starbucks Frappucino and wearing thigh highs as he beams at whatever is inside the bag.

 

“It’s WONDERFUL! The fabric is so  _soft…._ And  _look_ , the gems look so authentic!” Viktor holds up the halfway opened baggie, reveals a dark, skin tight costume. Half of it is mesh, with crystals adorning the side. Looked like someone from a BDSM club would wear, but you didn’t hear that from Yuri…

 

“Beka, look...” Yuri says, nudging the man next to him. The costume glows, but not a  _beacon_ like glow, more like an old 60’s portrait. A soft, comforting glow, like mac and cheese when the cheese freshly melts. “It’s a memento.”

 

Whatever this dark black costume is, it meant a lot to Nikiforov. And it might be their next ticket on finding out how and why Viktor wanted another gold medal.

 

Otabek pauses the memory sequence, faces Yuri.

 

“Alright,  _how_ are we going to motivate him into winning a gold medal when he already has a truck ton?” Otabek says, hands on hips.

 

Yuri snicker, looking at the paused hologram-like memory. Nikiforov had one eye half opened, his mouth in an awkward position, frozen in holding the baggie up like an as seen on TV product-

 

“Yuri…”

 

“Huh, what?” Yuri snaps out of his reverie, wishing he had his phone so he could capture this glorious moment.

 

Otabek sighs, shakes his head, and inputs the memento.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is sixteen, and he wins all alone.

 

“He’s a fucking Olympic  _champion_?”

 

Otabek pats him on the head sympathetically, shushing him as Yuri seethes, watching the three figures on the podium. Lo and behold, Nikiforov stood on top, 2006 Olympic medal on his chest. There are other holograms of his memories, one is still gliding on the ice, the other just got on it, etc. etc. He was wearing that skin tight costume he previously squealed about, proud and mighty and-

 

“He’s a fucking Olympic  _champion_. What more could he  _want_?” Yuri seethes, Otabek just shushes him.

 

“We can’t rush to assumptions, Yura. We’re going to have to dig deeper.” One of the holograms show Nikiforov stepping off the ice, waving to the crowds as the golden medal glints around his neck. Yakov is there, and after a few moments, the two head back to the backstage area once more.

 

Huffing, Yuri follows them both as Otabek follows in tow.

 

“Mr. Nikiforov! Mr. Nikiforov, can we have a word-“

 

Yuri clenches his teeth, hating the paparazzi. He always found them annoying, especially when they crowded the company doors, wanting an interview from their stupid boss, fucking Leroy and his obnoxious girlfriend.

 

Viktor begs to differ.

 

He smiles, laughs, answers questions. He’s kind and soft-hearted. He patiently thanks every fan, hugs every kid who asks for his autograph, wishes his rivals the best, and not long after, the paparazzi are finally ushered away to god knows where and finally leaving Nikiforov alone.

 

It’s funny. Yuri and Otabek has never seen Nikiforov alone. He’s either with paparazzi, somewhere inside a skating rink as an audience praises his footwork, but never alone. The last time they have seen him alone, he was on a beach… Dying and desperate.

 

And when Nikiforov is alone in the locker room, he pulls out his wallet and stares at a picture.

 

It was like one of those cliché, movie tropes. Hero stares at old family picture or something, senses nostalgia, and then there’s screaming and guns, or possibly a romcom cliché trope.

 

“A memento…” Otabek whispers, seeing the familiar soft glow. It was a small picture, tiny enough to fit in one’s wallet, Yuri couldn’t see what it actually was…

 

Otabek pauses, everything freezes…

 

“Inanimate Object Interaction: On.” Otabek says, fiddling with the machine.

 

Yuri takes the wallet out of Nikiforov’s hands.

 

He expects a family photo, or maybe his girlfriend. Nikiforov was well known and everyone wanted to breathe in the same air as him, he probably had a lot of friends-

 

“Tch, what a loser.” Yuri says, rolling his eyes as he stares at the picture.

 

Otabek peers at the wallet curiously. “What is it?”

 

“It’s a picture of him and his dog,  _god_.” Yuri rolls his eyes. He’d never admit that he had a picture of him and his cat in his wallet too, but  _come on,_ cats were cooler.

 

Otabek purses his lips. “He might just love his pet a lot.”

 

“He needs a boyfriend.”

 

Otabek huffs. “We don’t even know if he’s gay.”

 

“He  _looks_ gay.”

 

Otabek gives him a look before inputting the memento; they’re thrown into another blender of memories.

 

A twelve year old watches the whole show from his T.V at home, eyes twinkling.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is nineteen and he realizes that he’s got nothing to lose.

 

“Vitya…?”

 

_Knock knock._

“Vitya, please come out.”

 

Viktor sniffs, eyes devoid of any known emotion.

 

It’s scary. He _should_ feel pain, but the tears are streaming down his face in a numb river. His heart doesn’t ache, his chest doesn’t heave, nothing shatters and breaks because nothing left of him is whole.

 

“I’m fine, Yakov.” He had his usual, cheery voice. He had perfected many things… like his jumps and his spins, also faking his emotions. And he tried so  _hard_ to sound strong, like the person the people thought he were to be, but he was the exact opposite.

 

He was pathetic.

 

But he had the power to hide all that up.

 

But not to Yakov, because that man could read through him… Better than his family ever could.

 

“Viktor, please let me in…”

 

But Viktor didn’t want to let him in. Viktor wanted to get used to being alone all over again. He won’t be able to hear Makka’s cute little ‘boof’, nor will he have that warm presence sleeping on his bed every night, nor will the sound of Makkachin's paws on his shiny floorboards distract him from his loneliness.  _Pat pat pat_ …

 

_Pat pat pat._

Oh right, she’s gone.

 

He should’ve seen it coming. He should’ve accepted it. Makkachin was old, but she lived a well spent life. Viktor never wanted her gone, but every step of stairs are mountains, eating food was torture, and Makka wanted nothing more than to sleep…

 

Forever.

 

And he knew owners cried over their pets. It wasn’t anything new. But they had a family to help them. They had loved ones. They had  _somebody_ to fill that void…

 

All Viktor had was skating and Makkachin.

 

Now Makkachin left him.

 

And soon, skating will… too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yuri lets out a low whistle, watching as Nikiforov numbly cried into his pillow that night. “Wow…”

 

Otabek sighs, rubbing his forehead. “This is way too personal for me.” Otabek says as he walks out of the room.

 

Yuri nods, trailing him, the thought of poor old Potya in his mind and he wills the depressing thoughts away. She was home, she was safe, and they were going to binge watch a  bunch of old K-Dramas once Yuri’s done with work.

 

“Agreed.”

 

They tinker throughout Nikiforov’s apartment for a moment. It was filled with early 20th century items, old and almost alien to people in Yuri’s generation. They look for that same old glow again, soft and mellow, and eventually-

 

“Hey…” Otabek says, opening a nearby cabinet and pulling out a phone. And by phone, Yuri meant an old brick with buttons on it.

 

Yuri sneers at the sight of the old phone. “Jesus Christ, that’s ancient-“

 

Otabek raises an eyebrow at him. “We’re only in 2009.”

 

“ _Still_.”

 

Otabek just sighs, prepares to input the memento in-

 

Yuri gasps when Viktor emerges from the bedroom all of a sudden, mussed and messy and still a little red eyed…

 

He walks past them, oblivious to their presence, bare feet padding on the floor.

 

The two both sigh in relief.

 

“Now, let’s-“

 

“Wait…” Yuri says, pausing as he watches Viktor warily when the Russian man opens the door…

 

There’s a little brown poodle in a basket by his door, pawing at the soft blankets.

 

Viktor picks it up and smiles.

 

Yuri is unknowingly hit by a small pang of hope.

 

Otabek and Yuri leave.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty two and the dust in his life never settles.

 

“Hi Mama… Who? It’s me, Viktor… No, I’m your son.”

 

Otabek watches warily, watching as Nikiforov talks inanimately, alone in his dark room. He could be anywhere, on his couch, in his room, somewhere else, but it’s dark and Viktor’s eyes are dimmer than before.

 

“I saw from his records that his mother had Alzheimer’s.” Otabek murmurs, seeing the dull and unreadable look in Viktor’s eyes. It’s like Nikiforov was used to this, used to the _pain-_

 

“What about his father?”

 

“He left.”

 

“N-No… I’m, It’s  _Viktor_. I’m not an imposter, Mama.” Viktor lets out a sad chuckle. Otabek’s chest clenches at how sad it sounded. “Did you see me skate today, Mama? I was… I was on TV- Oh… You… You didn’t? That’s… That’s alright.”

 

“Turns out they were broke because of him.” Otabek continues. “The family invested everything just so Mr. Nikiforov could skate.”

 

“Figure Skating isn’t  _that_  expensive… is it?”

 

“It is, Yura. His mother was a skater in her youth and she wanted Viktor to become one to. His father grew tired of it and left them. She shortly got Alzheimer’s before Viktor managed to rise to the top.”

 

Yuri doesn’t say anything for once, just watches…

 

And he remembers his grandfather, their crumbling house, the broken down jeep, the amount of sweat he poured out just to get this goddamn job, and he realizes that he might understand Nikiforov a little bit more now…

 

Viktor sighs, eyes broken. “I’ll… I’ll call you later when you’re feeling better, alright? I’m- No, I’m  _Viktor_ , your son. No, your son isn’t dead. I’m very much alive.”

 

Yuri just sighs, seeing the nearest memento.

 

A silver medal.

 

Yuri raises an eyebrow, wondering how Nikiforov managed to lose to second place.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty seven and he finally has a rival.

 

“ **Now we have Yuuri Katsuki, twenty three and from Japan, gold winning medalist of this year’s Grand Prix Final, breaking Viktor Nikiforov’s streak!** ”

 

Yuri blinks…

 

And blinks…

 

He stares at the beaming Japanese man on top of the podium, waving to the crowds as his blue costume glinted under the spotlight. He looked like a lighthouse, lighting up the heady ocean and settling everything in a soft glow. Katsuki looked like a memento himself, ethereal and glowing and smiling brightly…

 

And Viktor looked up at him from second place, hair now chopped noticeably shorter; looking up at the younger man like Katsuki just eradicated every star from the sky.

 

“Ugh, he looks so angry.” Yuri grimaces, and Otabek laughs, shoulders shaking. “It’s unnerving.”

 

“He looks like you.” Otabek sing songs in the most out of character of voices, Yuri scowls at him.

 

“I do  _not_ look like someone just murdered my entire family and ran off with my riches.” Otabek scoffs, pursing his lips as he smirks.

 

Yuri kicks him in the shins.

 

As Otabek hisses in pain (Yuri was small and short but he had the legs of a horse) he sees Viktor’s face and reactions, sees the way his eyes stare at the crowds with dull interest, sees the way his lips frown even amidst the deliberately fake smile Nikiforov tries to put out. It was like seeing Buddha frown for the first time, despite being enlightened and whatnot.

 

Viktor was on top of his game for  _years,_ no one would be able to remove him from his pedestal. He’d broken countless records, set them himself, and Otabek wasn’t sure but the guy probably had two houses full of golden medals. Viktor was a skating god, the nearby newspaper says, and only the mightiest would be able to take him down.

 

Even amidst all that superficial golden false senses of security, Otabek knew Viktor had nothing to lose. All Viktor had was skating. That’s it.

 

So what if somebody tries to take that away?

 

Otabek hums as he watches the two get off the ice. Before they part ways, one sends a breezy glare to the other.

 

It sure as hell Nikiforov wouldn’t go down without a fight.

 

“Beka, come on.” Yuri says, gesturing to a nearby memento.

 

A newspaper, old and crumpled.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty seven and the world is starting to forget him.

 

Katsuki this, Katsuki that, didn’t the Japanese man break his world record  _again_? Hoo boy, how amazing. Tell me  _more_. It was like ocean waves repeatedly crashing over you, drowning you with repetition and the horrors of this world’s truth. Yuri suspected that Viktor drowned after every article, interview, every mention of Katsuki’s name…

 

“Poor guy.” Yuri murmurs, watching the blue eyed man pant heavily as he goes for another run, sweat rolling down his forehead in a steady stream. The two have been watching his practice for about ten minutes now, and the poor boy hasn’t even decided to rest.

 

“He must be hell bent on beating Katsuki, for some reason…” Otabek says, watching warily.

 

“For some reason? Dude, haven’t you  _seen_  their rivalry? The two are basically gunning for the other’s necks-“

 

Otabek raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to say something, but he spots another memento in the distance.

 

A coffee cup.

 

“We need to hurry.” Otabek says, walking to the side of the barrier where the steaming cup of coffee stood, glowing dimly. It sat a few inches away from where Viktor’s coach stood leaning against the barrier, watching his student intently.

 

Viktor skates over to him, wiping his face and panting. Otabek moves to activate the memento, when Yuri stops him, grabbing his arm before he could input the memento in the device.

 

“You’re getting sloppier.” Yakov says in Russian, Yuri’s mother tongue. Yuri listens intently while Otabek looks on with confusion. “If you want any chance to beat Katsuki then you must up your limit-“

 

“I  _am,_  Yakov.” Viktor sighs tiredly, the beads of sweat rolling down his glistening forehead. “I’m trying so hard-“

 

“It’s not enough.” Yakov says, rubbing a wrinkled temple. “For the whole of your career I’ve done nothing but push you to your limits. You’ve succeeded because of this and you whine for a rival until Katsuki came. Now what, Vitya? Will you let him win with just one quad and perfect footwork?”

 

Viktor pants, greedily gulping from a nearby water bottle. “No.”

 

Yakov eyes narrow,  _just a slight_. “I swear to god, if you’re slacking because of the rumors were true-“

 

Viktor slams his water bottle down on the divider, droplets flying everywhere.

 

Yakov doesn’t even flinch.

 

“It’s not true.” Viktor says. Yuri could see that his voice was strained, forced and elaborate. “Can we focus on anything different for once? I have to perfect this program-“

 

“What are they saying?” Otabek murmurs, eyes a little confused.

 

Yuri just sighs and inputs the memento.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty eight and he wins against Katsuki.

 

Yuri couldn’t help but feel the twist in his stomach as he sees them in that order once more, always back and forth between the podiums, the other winning the other losing and it held a crackling intensity in the air. And even as Viktor finally stood in the middle, golden medal gleaming in the lights…

 

He looked unreadable.

 

This was more terrifying, actually. When someone’s visibly mad or sad or happy, you get confirmation on what they’re feeling. Being unreadable was like a secret power, a mask, like protecting yourself against the world. Nobody would know what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking, what the thoughts in your head are swirling with. It was-

 

Another projection of Viktor’s memories come up, this time he was in front of the paparazzi by the backstage area, answering some questions. There was a certain sense of determination in Nikiforov’s eyes, like an unquenchable fire.

 

“I will be sure to defeat Katsuki again in the upcoming Grand Prix Final.” Viktor says, voice meant to be passed off with a certain sense of light-heartedness, but there was an unmistakable passion in his eyes. “Make no mistake of it.”

 

Yuri’s eyes narrow unmistakably, watching the scene unfold.

 

Something was off.

 

“Do you think this is enough?” Otabek asks, hollering at Yuri amidst the excited screams surrounding them. He holds up the handheld machine expectantly. “Katsuki is a good enough drive, don’t you think?”

 

Yuri shakes his head confusedly.

 

“Beka, do we even  _know_ why he didn’t get a medal in the first place?”

 

Otabek slackens, eyes widening in deep thought as the realizations hits.

 

“I…” Otabek says, looking at the nearby projection.

 

“No.”

 

“Then how are we going to input the drive if we don’t know how he failed to get a medal in the first place, huh?” Yuri says, raising an eyebrow. “Dear  _lord_ -“

 

Otabek sighs. “Alright, alright.” Otabek runs a hand through his undercut, messy and disheveled, as he looks around at the memory sequence. “ _Look_ , there’s a memento over there!”

 

The bouquet of roses, blue and silver, glint under the lights.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“What the  _hell_?”

 

Do you remember those black and white movies without any sound? It’s a little surprising to discover olden entertainment and wonder how people didn’t go insane. They were so awkwardly silent, like imagine sitting in a theater trying hard to chew your popcorn quietly as some dude in the back records the whole movie illegally just so he could sell a bootleg version of it.

 

“What’s wrong? Is there a glitch in the machine components? Did you input the direct system right?” Yuri asks as Otabek types something furiously into the handheld device, mumbling something about stupid mechanic workers.

 

Yuri looks around in awe as the endless white surrounds him, dulling his perception as the color white bleaches into his perspective. He’s reminded of that one torture method where the person is locked in an all white room. The person goes crazy after that, gnawing at his skin and gauging out his eyes, Yuri does  _not_ want to go down that road.

 

“Where are we?” He asks, trying to make out the surroundings.

 

“We’re supposed to be in his next memory.” Otabek murmurs distractedly. “But there must be something going on…”

 

“A glitch in the system? In the Matrix?  _What_?”

 

Otabek rolls his eyes. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

 

Yuri scowls. “Fix everything. I don’t want to go insane in a white room with you.”

 

Otabek hums. “Calm down. It’s an easy fix.”

 

 _Yeah right_. Yuri says, eyes rolling.  _I swear to god if I start hallucinating or seeing dream bubbles I am going to kill myself-_

It doesn’t take long for Yuri to jolt up, to be swirled through the vortex of time and memories. He’s awake and back on the chair next to a dying Viktor Nikiforov’s bed, as if nothing has happened. As if nothing has changed.

 

He takes of the helmet, groans as the heavy machinery is no longer on his head and he feels multiple cowlicks on his hair. He stretches his muscles, one popping to the next, as Mila watches curiously from the other side of the room.

 

“How long were we out?” Otabek asks, not even taking his eyes off the holographic screen in front of him.

 

“For a few hours, for the least.” Mila says, standing up. “The doctor will be back in a few hours or so. I’ll just get you guys a drink.” The redhead walks out of the room, short hair swishing.

 

“What happened?” Yuri asks, peering over Otabek’s shoulder as the algorithms and numbers fly on the machine’s screen. Yuri was more of a field guy, numbers and calculations usually weren’t his thing, but Otabek was. And it made them the perfect team.

 

Otabek hums. “There are two possibilities: either it’s a maintenance glitch and this machine is old as fuck.”

 

Yuri raises an eyebrow. “And?”

 

“Or Mr. Nikiforov used beta blockers in the past.”

 

Yuri’s eyebrow rises even further, so high until it almost reaches his hairline. “He’s an  _athlete._ He’s not allowed to take any mentally manipulating drugs, for all I know.”

 

Otabek sighs. “But he  _can_ , per se. Does he have any recorded traumatic pasts? Abuse? Rape? Violence?”

 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “I told you, there’s nothing wrong with him. He was an only child with two averagely well off parents living somewhere in Moscow before his family broke apart. The worst he got was a nasty case of the flu one time and when he injured his leg due to a jump. That’s it.”

 

Otabek stares for a moment. “Wow… You know your stuff.”

 

Yuri smacks him upside the head. “We’ve been working together for years, you idiot. Now go fix this. You’re right, maybe we’ve reached the end of the line. Defeating Katsuki might be enough to drive him to win for that Grand Prix Final. Then he might retire after that.”

 

Otabek nods, grabbing his helmet that was previously resting on his lap. “Let’s input all the mementos, then we’ll see launch a test drive on his most reoccurring memory.”

 

Sad to say, like most things in this world, it doesn’t work out.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is ninety two, and he’s making plans on his death.

 

“Nothing’s changed.” Yuri whispers out, as if not to disturb anyone. He looks around, sees the ocean, sees the waves, the seagulls fly past in a perfect V formation like before, Nikiforov standing a few feet ahead of them,  _nothing_ has changed.

 

Why? It was supposed to. Even if it was just a tiny detail, like a seashell moving, or the sky is darker, or whatever the  _fuck_. But it hasn’t changed.

 

Something is wrong.

 

“Are you sure you inputted the drive correctly?” He asks Otabek, who was fiddling with the machine with a determined look on his face.

 

“Yeah, actually. More than once, to be honest…”

 

Yuri just huffs. “ _Do_ something, geez.”

 

He starts to walk towards Nikiforov, his shoes sinking into the metaphorical sand. He’s hit with a certain sense of déjà vu, like he’s been hit by the same cold ocean air again, or the fact that his shoes are starting to fill up with sand once more, or maybe it’s because Nikiforov was everything and nothing Yuri expected him to be.

 

Viktor turns around, eyes old and tired.

 

It was a sight Yuri saw all the time. And yet it was a sight that Yuri hasn’t seen at all at the same time.

 

Nikiforov smiles, soft and tired. But he had a twinkle in his eye. “Are you two those lackeys from Sigmund Corp?”

 

Yuri blinks.

 

Well.

 

“[ **Something is _definitely_ wrong**.]” Yuri says into their internal microphones. He hears Otabek just huff from the other end of the line.

 

_Crackle, static-_

Yuri is hit with a sense of worry, until Otabek’s voice returns.

 

“[ **Yura, we have to leave. Now**.]”

 

Yuri huffs a quick affirmation into the microphone. The old man looks at him curiously, blue eyes lost and confused… a look Yuri has seen him wear more than once. It was becoming a trademark, and Yuri wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not.

 

Yuri just smiles at the old man, green eyes oddly soft for the first time.

 

“No. Have a nice day, sir.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“So… He  _definitely_ took beta blockers.”

 

Yuri groans before taking a sip of the cold orange juice Mila laid out for him. “Jesus Christ.”

 

Otabek nods, looking up from his phone. “The team sent me more information. It says here that he had a scheduled appointment with a couple of doctors discreetly to have customized memories removed after he took the blockers.”

 

Yuri narrowed his eyes, taking it all in. “He wanted to have certain things forgotten?” It seemed so… out of line. “So… The memories we couldn’t gain access to-“

 

Otabek nods. “Were the ones he blocked? Yes.”

 

Yuri leans back his chair, eyes confused. “But…” He was going to ask ‘why’ but he figured it would be too unimportant. Despite that, some part of Yuri wanted to know nonetheless. “How are we going to get the blockers removed?”

 

Otabek purses his lips. “It’s easy? But… It’s also a little tricky. I’ll just have to reconfigure the memories in his brain so we could have a way to circle around the blockers, but we need a trigger from his past…”

 

Mila raises an eyebrow from her position by the door, listening intently. “A trigger? Like what?”

 

Otabek shrugs. “A photo or something.  _Anything_.”

 

“But Mr. Nikiforov has been unconscious for days. We don’t know when he’ll be able to wake up.” Mila says, and Yuri groans.

 

“We’re back to square one…” Yuri groans, chugging back the last of his orange juice. “We’re gonna have to give him a trigger that doesn’t focus on sight.”

 

“Like taste?”

 

“Hearing?”

 

“Smell?”

 

Otabek sighs, drooping against his chair. “How are we going to find  _that_?”

 

Yuri doesn’t know, either.

 

They’re running out of time.

 

Yuri stares at the dying man before them, skin whiter than Snow White’s, pale hair almost as white as his skin, and Yuri was sure that if he opened his eyes he could see a flash of blue-

 

Yuri is hit by a cannonball of ideas.

 

“Mila! Do you have any roses?”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty four years old, and he wishes to turn everything back.

 

It’s snowing.

 

Flecks of snow flutter in Yuri’s eyelashes, in his hair, camouflaging in his white coat. It’s dark, he registers, and without the help of the nearby lamps they would’ve been drenched in darkness as the snowflakes cake them in cold. They’re pretty though, Yuri thinks, like little fireflies amidst the dark night sky…

 

There’s one firefly, brighter than the others…

 

It’s a certain Viktor Nikiforov, sitting on a bench up ahead, as a beacon in his hand lights up the sky.

 

Glancing at each other warily, Otabek and Yuri approach the bench and the lone blue eyed man…

 

They inspect him closely, seeing the way his blue eyes were unmoving and staring at nothing in particular at all. The way his skin stretches over his bones, the way his scarf whipped against the wind, the way his right hand glowed with so much light, like he was holding the sun in his palm-

 

“Is that a memento in his hand?” Otabek asks quietly, observing warily. “It’s… glowing.”

 

“It could be. How the hell are we going to input it, though?”

 

“You tell me. But we need it to delve deeper into his memories-“

 

“Do you want to?”

 

It was neither Yuri nor Otabek who said that.

 

Yuri nearly stumbles back as Nikiforov talks, voice steady and devoid of emotions. His blue eyes snap to them, calculating and irrevocably lost, like a lost wolf. It was a sad sight, but what was sadder is the fact that Nikiforov’s memories just talked to them.

 

Otabek merely stares in shock.

 

“H-How…” Yuri says, voice shaking as he stares at the blue eyed man in shock. He checks his handheld device and-  _yep_ , he forgot to turn on inactivity. There was a reason why Viktor sees them, but there was no explanation as to why they knew of their existence.“How do you-“

 

“Do you want to?” The man echoes, voice lost somewhere far away. His blue eyes snap back to the city, back to the sky, back to somewhere Otabek and Yuri can’t see. Viktor’s voice was unnervingly soft, albeit it was strained.

 

“Do you want to remember?”

 

Otabek looks to Yuri for confirmation. Yuri is just as confused as Otabek, green eyes wild with shock and loss.

 

Otabek clears his throat. “Remember… what, sir?”

 

Viktor’s eyes drift away, back to the city lights up ahead. His blue eyes search and search, cold and sad and longing for something that wasn’t there-

 

“What I forgot.”

 

Viktor slides something off his finger, hands the brightly glowing memento to them-

 

A golden wedding ring.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty seven and he’s completely surprised.

 

He leans back against the barriers, watching the Japanese man skate with his eyes closed, unknowing of Viktor’s presence. Katsuki moved in glides and movements that Viktor knew of only himself… well, that’s what he thought.

 

He couldn’t help the many emotions that were running through his mind at the moment… Like  _warmth_ , yes… warmth was  _definitely_ one of those. And maybe a splash of awe and a pint of amazement. What the overly exaggerated tabloids were saying about Katsuki’s footwork and ability to touch the hearts of the audience were true, because Viktor was about to cry.

 

No, not from his loss earlier… But from Katsuki’s immeasurable beauty.

 

There was a thrill to winning, _that_ Viktor could confirm. He could say Yuuri deserved that gold medal, seeing the way the sweat poured down his face and the determined, fiery look in his eyes. Albeit he was disappointed in himself, sure. but if he was to lose to someone then Katsuki was a good contender.

 

And despite being pulled by Katsuki’s beautiful skating, the music he emanated from his body, seeing Yuuri skate his beloved routine, late at night in a deserted rink in Moscow, set a fire in his soul.

 

When Katsuki finishes his routine,  _Viktor’s_ routine, arms raised and facing the heavens, Viktor claps as Yuuri finishes a routine that Viktor choreographed himself.

 

Yuuri nearly trips and falls.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty seven and he’s made a new friend.

 

He laughs and smiles freely around this man, around Yuuri Katsuki, and he was free and Yuuri was so _kind_ and he’d never thought he would ever find himself in this compromising situation. But it wasn’t compromising at all. It was… light and fun, like flying…

 

And Viktor finds himself to start learning. What, you may ask? Could it be about finally learning how to do a fucking Quad Axel for once? No. But he  _did_ learn that Yuuri does this adorable nose scrunch when he laughs, and that his favorite food is Katsudon, and that he has a pet poodle which he loved-

 

“Hey, apparently people think we hate each other’s guts.” Viktor says one time, when they’re eating out somewhere after the competition. Yuuri scoffs.

 

“That’s what you get when you glare at someone on top of the podium.”

 

Viktor pouts, blushing a little at the memory. “I had  _something in my eye_ , alright? T’was an accident. Plus, you glared at me too.”

 

"Viktor, on ice, I'm practically half blind. I have to  _squint_ in order to see."

 

Viktor is hit by a realization, remembering the adorable blue frames that were perched low on Yuuri’s button nose. "Ah... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

 

Yuuri hums. “Sure you didn't. Now I’m just thinking that you’re just trying to be my friend just so you can sabotage me.”

 

Viktor feigns an evil laugh, doing that weird pointy eyebrow thing. “Ah, so you’ve  _realized_ my master plan-“ Viktor says this in the most ridiculous British accents in the history of British accents, and Yuuri snorts iced tea through his nose.

 

“Hey, how about we continue the show, huh?” Viktor says as he hands Yuuri a couple of paper napkins. “You know I always love to surprise people-“

 

Yuuri nods, snorting away any traces of iced tea from his nostrils. “Uh huh…”

 

“How about we make them  _believe_ we hate each other? And then someway or another we drop the bomb and then BAM! Turns out we’re besties.”

 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow.

 

“Viktor, I’ve known you for three days.”

 

“ _Still._ ”

 

Yuuri sits back, eyes holding a challenge and Viktor had to suppress a smile. "I'm still not giving you my number, though."

 

"And why  _not_?"

 

"Not until you buy me another frappuccino, at least."

 

"Damn. You  _really_ love coffee, don't you?"

 

"Where'd you think my stamina came from, huh?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty eight and he’s in love.

 

(Something in the back of his mind screams at him that it's  _not_ love, probably the little Yakov in the back of his head, but it could be. It  _could_ be.)

 

“Hey…” Viktor says when they’re alone in the locker room after a competition. “Turns out, I realized I actually like you.”

 

Yuuri hums, wiping away any excess sweat. “That’s nice. I like you too.” He takes a swig from his water bottle-

 

“No. Like, like  _like_ you. As in the ‘I-wanna-smooch-your-face-off’ like you.”

 

Yuuri spits out his water.

 

As Viktor pats him on the back while Yuuri coughs, Viktor wonders if he’s been too straight to the point. After several moments of coughing, Yuuri lets out a tiny wheeze.

 

“You’re…  _extraordinarily_ blunt.”

 

Viktor hums, the previously gnawing nervousness starting to ebb away. “It’s a gift.”

 

Yuuri had this pretty blush on his face, and it does this  _thing_ where it acts like stardust and it sprinkles all over Yuuri’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. It looked like it jumped out of a Studio Ghibli movie, and Viktor’s heart was doing that weird thing again where it flutters unknowingly… and  _god damn it-_

“Are…” Yuuri says, placing the water bottle down and facing him fully. He had his team jacket opened to reveal the pretty costume Yuuri wore. “Are you sure?”

 

Viktor has never been surer in his life.

 

“Vitya.” Yakov’s growling voice says from the corridor, his gaze digging holes into Viktor’s back. Viktor turns around to see his coach, looking like the world was ending and his favorite show wasn’t going to resolve that cliffhanger.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty eight and the world gnaws at the edge of his mind.

 

“You know you can’t be with him, right?”

 

Viktor raises an eyebrow, packing up his suitcase distractedly. “Hm?”

 

Yakov crosses his arms. “Don’t play fool with me.”

 

“I already am one.”

 

Yakov huffs grumbling under his breath. “You know what the media and ISU will do.”

 

Viktor doesn’t answer.

 

“I’m not against what you want, boy. But homophobia is still rampant around these times. You  _do_ remember what happened to Chris, right?”

 

Ah, yes. Christophe. One of his old friends… and one of the few people in this world who were proud enough to flaunt their sexuality out onto the ice…

 

Sad to say, Christophe was banned.

 

It baffles him, sometimes, on how excruciatingly hypocritical the world can be.

 

“I’m happy with who you want to be with, Vitya.” Yakov says, voice undeniably soft. “But it’s either this or your career. And we both know that you have nothing to lose.”

 

 

* * *

  

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty eight and he falls, over and over again, but someone catches him nonetheless.

 

“Wow! You’re really good at pair skating! Do you think you can lift me up again?”

 

Yuuri chuckles as Viktor swings him around on the ice lazily, both of them too dazed and too in love to care. They were like a dysfunctional carousel, with the little horses looking like a drag queens.

 

“I’ve carried you more than a dozen times already, Vitya.”

 

Viktor, the drunken in love idiot that he is, feels his heart thrum at the nickname. “But you’re so  _strong_. Do it again- WEE!”

 

Yuuri, despite his slim and lithe form, apparently had the strength and power to lift up a giggling twenty eight year old.

 

Yuuri giggles, setting Viktor back down on the ice gracefully. “You’re honestly such a giant man child.”

 

Viktor swings Yuuri around as they both laugh, holding Yuuri close as they glide across the deserted ice rink, both of them perfectly alone with each other (or so they thought). It was perfectly immeasurable, not even Doctor Who or Bill Nye could explain how perfect the situation was.

 

“But I’m  _your_ giant man child.”

 

It was a routine, like a skating routine you perform during the Olympics. One of them lifts up to greatness, and then they meet each other halfway. It was a little hard and competitive at first, but they eventually, like all the other things they go through in life, managed.

 

Some people got tired of routines, wanting ‘something new and fresh’ and some other mediocre white picket fence shit like that. Almost everyone does. But not Viktor and Yuuri. They competed, and sometimes one of them would rise up higher than the other, but they’d always meet each other halfway.

 

And it was the beauty of it all, no? They rose against each other and yet they were equals, puzzle pieces sliding together in sync. It was the beauty in competition, nothing could ever compare.

 

Sometimes it wasn’t normal. They’re always trying to outrank the other, for one. But it was all good natured, yes? Like that one time Yuuri got the most kisses from Makkachin that one night, or when Viktor managed to finish all the Marshmallows in the Lucky Charms cereal box-

 

Viktor stops short, stays there… holding Yuuri close, his breath dancing on Yuuri’s cheek.

 

“I wish I could tell everyone.” Viktor murmurs, sending red to blossom on Yuuri’s cheeks. “I wish I could tell the world… I wish I could scream it out to the heavens…”

 

Yuuri chuckles, sad and low, as he brushes Viktor’s bangs back. “We can’t. You know that.”

 

“But I want to.” Viktor says, eyes eliciting a promise. “I want to let the world know how much I love you. I don’t give a damn about what they say. I want  _you_.”

 

Yuuri does that thing again, when he gets hopeful and happy, where his eyes open wide with shock for a moment before everything about him smiles. Yuuri just radiates happiness,  _Viktor’s_ happiness, and it was so  _nice-_

 

Yuuri holds him close. Yuuri smelled like ice and sweat, and Viktor probably did too, but the situation was perfect nonetheless.

 

“So do I.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov was twenty eight and was alright with the world forgetting him.

 

He hugs Yuuri tight that night, when they discreetly meet up on top of the hotel roof after the competition, smile wider than ever before. The stars stream above them, like pretty disco lights. It was pretty. _Yuuri_ was pretty.

 

“You’ve beaten my record. I’m so proud.”

 

Yuuri giggles, hugs him back, burying his face in Viktor’s shoulder. “Aren’t you upset?”

 

Viktor scoffs. “Far from it.”

 

He was alright if the world decides to forget him.

 

He’d rather be forgotten by the world that to forget about love.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov was twenty eight and he lets Yuuri fills the void inside of him.

 

Yuuri decides to accept Viktor’s invitation and moves in.

 

For multiple reasons, of course. Celestino, Yuuri’s coach, had decided to take up pair skating students from St. Petersburg. Now, it wasn’t alright for him to be thousands of miles away from his golden skater, so he asked Yuuri if he could move with him.

 

And Yuuri did.

 

But he didn’t live under Celestino.

 

Ohoho no.

 

That night, when Yuuri finally moved in with him, he had this little keyboard with him. It was merely five feet long and had dusty keys. It was like one of those things you see rock bands bring around. It was cool.

 

Viktor loves it. Loves everything about the fact that Yuuri was now moving in. Loves everything about  _Yuuri_ , to be honest. It’s like little droplets of color now a bloom in his apartment, and it was  _wonderful_. Like a little potted plant on the windowsill, Yuuri’s discarded blanket behind an office chair, or that they have  _two_ dogs now. Yuuri’s poodle was named Vicchan, and Viktor might have a feeling where the name came from…

 

And he still learns, to this day. He learns that Yuuri likes to sing along to songs when they come on radio, and that he likes to burrito himself at night (turns out Viktor liked hugging burritos), and that Yuuri had anxiety that made him swivel his eyes and gnaw at his nails until they were jagged-

 

Sometimes Yuuri has nightmares.

 

Sometimes Yuuri is too anxious to try and wake Viktor up.

 

When he wakes up one night, one half of his bed empty, he hears two notes being played over and over again.

 

Like two tiny feet, stepping and stepping.  _Step step step step step step._ It was repetitive and just two notes fucking being played over and over again, but it was a lovely tune nonetheless…

 

Viktor freaks out for a moment, because hearing that in the middle of the night was enough to scare the shit out of you, but he remembers that Yuuri was there with him now. And it was a comforting thought.

 

Viktor creeps out, finds Yuuri by his keyboard and the two poodles sitting by his feet. His eyes unfocused and dazed, staring at his two fingers dancing on the keys.

 

_Step step step step step step step-_

They were just two notes being played over and over again.

 

 _Nothing_ but two notes being played over and over again.

 

_Step step step step step step step-_

 

And yet, they were more than that, still.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is twenty nine and the universe reflects in his eyes.

 

He was seven when he succumbs, tiny hands slapping the ice as he _feels_ what it’s like to be under the ice’s whim. He cries and laughs and he goes _mad_ , latching onto that _one thing_ that he had. His father was gone, almost as absent as a fleck of snow in April. His mother forgets the color of his eyes, his hair, but she _does_ know the color gold. And that’s what he’s been getting his whole life.

 

And he’s been falling repeatedly for _years_ now, only when no one is there to see him fail. Quietly, gently, loud, rough, all at the same time. He falls and scratches his knees, his feet, his palms and he _cries_. Cries knowing that the thing he’s crying over will be all gone one day. The ice will forget him. The crowds will never yell his name again. His feet will be too old and crippled to fit in his skates. He’ll just be a memory, someone lost to the breeze. Absent as a fleck of snow in April.

 

One day, he’ll be _nothing_. 

 

But that day is not today.

 

The cold shocks him at first, something that his usually gloved hand isn’t used to. Yuuri slides the fabric off and chucks it off to the side.The golden ring is cold on his finger, sliding up to his knuckle, resting there as if it was meant to be.

 

And it was.

 

It  _was_.

 

This was _something._

 

Yuuri called him out of his hotel room that night, the night before the Free Skate, and they danced around the Barcelona streets with their fingers linked and shoulders touching. They don’t care about the whispers and the stares. Viktor handfed Yuuri half of his plate and Yuuri was too embarrassed to decline. The whole restaurant gives them stares, but they do not care.

 

Now, they’re right in front of a church and a choir sings in the distance, and Viktor was in _love_.

 

_So, so in love._

 

Yuuri looks up at him, a challenge in his eyes albeit it was mixed with an unmistakable swirl of love and softness. It was a look that he reserved for Viktor. It was a look that Viktor reserved for _him_.

 

This was _something_. This was _everything_. He falls all over again, hands slapping the ice as pain reverberates up his entire body. But he laughs and he smiles, and Yuuri is there to help him up even when the sole reason of Viktor’s fall was _him_. Viktor would fall continuously, over and over again, just to have Yuuri care for him and help him up by the arms. He’ll do the same as well, don’t worry. He’ll do _everything_. He’ll do _everything_ just to have him here, nothing holding them back, nothing ever stopping them from falling.

 

Viktor feels his heart jump from his chest as he slides the ring on Yuuri’s finger, the golden band filled with so many unsaid promises, but they knew what it said, they knew what they wanted…

 

He’ll do _everything_. He’ll never put his skates on again. He’d give up drinking alcohol completely. He’ll shave his head. He’ll do _everything_.

 

One day he'll be nothing.

 

But right now, he's  _something._

 

He's  _happy_.

 

_If one of us wins gold at the Grand Prix Final, we’ll get married. Alright? And then we'll finally tell the world of our story. Nothing will ever stop us._

 

Viktor’s eyes light up at the statement, brighter than the day he won an Olympic gold at the age of sixteen. But the blue in his eyes aren’t his universe. The man standing across from him, the only one Viktor had only truly, fully, _completely_ , loved, was.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty nine and he counts two steps.

 

You know those little things that could make and break a person? Like one of those cliché games about time travel or the butterfly effect? Crushing one tiny ant could cause the next genocide, that one little taunt you told your little brother could change his perspective of things, and…

 

And…

 

It was just one jump.

 

One jump.

 

Viktor could hear the two steps as Yuuri glided across the ice, the familiar piano tune Yuuri played at night. Yuuri was beautiful. Yuuri was _his._ They were going to win. They were going to win and get married on an ocean side with Makkachin as an adorable ringbearer, cute bow and all. They were going to win with the two steps. It was a beautiful, captivating, haunting melody… and Viktor could never, ever, look away.

 

_Step step step step step step step step step step step step-_

Viktor couldn’t look away.

 

_Step step step step step step step step step step step step-_

 

Viktor  _couldn’t_ look away.

_Step step step step-_

 

Yuuri skids to the ice; the sound of bone cracking fills the rink.

 

The steps all stop.

 

Viktor still couldn’t look away.

 

Neither of them wins gold that night.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty nine and he falls, his hands do not stop bleeding.

 

 _“He’s been transported to Japan_.” Yakov says one morning, when Viktor couldn’t sleep again. He’s been riddled with nightmares of two steps, repeating over and over again. “ _They have better doctors there, they said. He’s still not waking up any time soon; he’s in a deep coma.”_

Viktor wishes he was there, cold and lifeless, melding with the ice completely.

 

It was a crushing reality. It was a sad and gratifying fact. It was quiet, nonetheless, unlike the whirlwind of crushing realities Viktor has gone through his entire life. It was like Yuuri, quiet and yet carnivorous on the inside, and it was more terrifying nonetheless. There are many things that scare him, the most terrifying of them all was the golden ring around his finger.

 

He didn’t even get to say goodbye.

 

They won’t let him contact him _or_ his family.

 

He doesn’t _know_ how to contact him or his family.

 

And god knows how long it would be before Viktor will have the chance to fly to Japan.

 

Viktor drinks the night away, hoping that he’ll never wake up.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty nine and he forgets.

 

When it was his third consecutive night at the hotel bar, Yakov finally breaks and intervenes…

 

With a bottle of pills secretly tucked in his pocket.

 

Throughout the years, Yakov has seen more than a healthy amount of Viktor Nikiforov’s bullshit. It was a wonder and worldwide phenomenon on how he didn’t go insane. But now here he was, and he couldn’t help but feel like a monster.

 

“Vitya…” Yakov sits down on the stool next to the wasted man, feeling his heart thrumming in his chest. He never had this feeling before, where it feels like a glass panel is balancing on your shoulders. “You need to get yourself together.”

 

Viktor hiccups… how many times? One two three four- he forgot numbers all of a sudden. But he still remembers the glass of whiskey across from him, however, so it was alright…

 

Before he could chug it all down, Yakov stops his hand and takes the glass away from him.

 

Viktor whines, sprawling out on the bar counter.

 

Yakov secretly drops a pill in. It bubbles,  _drip drip_ , until it’s gone.

 

It’s not gone.

 

“I…” Viktor murmurs, eyes looking like a mini ocean and he wants to let the water out. It terrifies him. He’s drowning, drowning, drowning. “I… miss him.”

 

“You’ve been secretly having a relationship behind my back. I have no idea how I didn’t find out sooner or later.”

 

Viktor sighs, rubbing a temple. “I’m… I’m a sneaky person. You should know that.”

 

Yakov nods, solemn. “I should’ve.”

 

Viktor doesn’t answer. He just eyes the lights above, mistaking them for Barcelona stars, eyes unfocused and drunk.

 

“It’s my entire fault.”

 

“No… It’s not.”

 

“It is, Yakov. Yuuri… Yuuri is h-…. _h_ urt because of me.”

 

Yakov sighs. “He’s done nothing but destroy you.”

 

Viktor stares off into the distance.

 

He sees the lights, the stars, he sees the little church where Yuuri and Viktor promised themselves that one thing that seemed  _so_ attainable, but it seemed like it was everything that Viktor couldn't have right now.

 

Yakov was right.

 

Yuuri has done nothing but destroy him in the most beautiful of ways possible.

 

Yakov hands back the glass, drugged and Viktor drinks it all up, unknowing.

 

Yakov believed it was for the  _best_.

 

Katsuki didn’t seem like he was waking up anytime soon. The doctors found severe head trauma and damage, and if he were to suddenly wake up nonetheless, he’d never be the same. Yakov has seen this scene more than a handful of times, and it wasn’t pretty. He’d rather die than see Viktor, whom he treated as a son, go through the incoming onslaught of pain if Viktor continued this.

 

Viktor didn’t deserve to go through this.

 

And don’t blame Yakov.

 

He believed it was for the  _best._

But he didn’t know about Yuuri’s smile, the way his nose scrunched up when he laughs at Viktor’s stupid dad jokes, or the way Yuuri cooks and lets Viktor taste test it. He doesn’t know about Yuuri’s anxiety, his bitten nails, and his beautiful metaphorical scars all over. He didn’t know the way Viktor’s heart fluttered, the way his smile reached his eyes, the way the golden ring sat on Viktor’s ring finger-

 

Yakov didn’t know about their promise.

 

Yakov didn’t know they were engaged.

 

And later, when Viktor is unconscious, Yakov hauls him in a taxi and drives him to the nearest psychiatric ward. While there, he asks Georgi and a few other trusted friends to clear Viktor’s apartment of any traces of Yuuri Katsuki.

 

“Hi, we are here for a private appointment? We have used the Beta Blockers like you have instructed- the patient is unconscious yes, now… What memories should be blocked? Well…”

 

Don’t blame Yakov.

 

But unfortunately, Yakov didn’t know many things.

 

And what’s worse is the fact that Yakov didn’t know what the future will hold.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty nine and he wakes up with a golden ring on his finger.

 

Yakov says he bought it one night.

 

Viktor figures he must’ve forgotten.

 

He never takes it off anyways.

 

When people ask him if he’s engaged, he just shrugs.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty nine and he returns to his apartment.

 

It’s the same as before, dull and empty. After years of living alone, he figures he must’ve gotten used to it.

 

But there was a twist in his gut. Something _screamed_ in the back of his head. He jolts, shakes his head, and looks around at the now suspiciously empty apartment.

 

But there’s this one cute little potted plant by the counter, small and green and alone and Viktor has  _never_ seen it before in his life.

 

He keeps it anyways.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor is twenty nine and he wins gold.

 

Again.

 

It’s a dull and empty win. Competition after competition, flight after flight, the living legend lives on to make history. But it’s all a blur to him. He registers breaking a world record again, Yuuri Katsuki’s world record, and for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

 

Once, after a competition, a reporter asks him what his thoughts are on Katsuki.

 

And there’s a nagging feeling in him, like a clawing memory waiting to be revealed, but he searches and searches and he simply cannot find it anymore. He had a feeling that he should know more,  _say_ more, but he doesn’t. All he remembers are the glares, the rivalry, the crash, Katsuki’s _beautiful_ skating-

 

He tried, and tried, and tried

 

When he answers, he smiles softly and says that he prays for his rival’s recovery.

 

Nobody hears from Katsuki ever again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty years old and he dreams of two notes, being played over and over again.

 

He jolts awake, the two steps echoing in his mind. They fade as he pants, chest heaving, but they resonate through Viktor’s mind still. He’s thankful that he didn’t wake up his dog, who curled up on the other side of the bed, as if missing a certain presence.

 

Viktor steps out of his bedroom, sees his apartment, registering how it has never felt this lonely before, sees the potted plant and it’s wilting leaves by the counter…

 

Viktor waters it and goes back to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty one years old and the gold medal clamps down on his chest, choking him until he drops.

 

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why every time he stares at his massive trophy cabinet it feels empty. He doesn’t know why his heart is screaming for that shine. He doesn’t know why he wants to win, over and over and over and over and over and over again. Until the flesh from his palms melt away completely, until his feet can no longer move, until he _gets that gold medal_ -

 

But even if he does, even if he does break world record after world record, he still has that hunger.

 

But it wasn't vicious; it wasn't the sort of 'I want to take over the world' hunger. It was a sad, quiet hunger. Like a tiny kitten pawing at your pant leg nonstop. Repetitive, never ending, it can drive you _insane._ And it made it worse, because Viktor didn't know where it came from.

 

He just doesn’t know why.

 

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever know why.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Viktor Nikiforov is thirty two years old and wins one last golden medal.

 

One _last._

 

If he was going to retire, he must do it with a bang, right? The last Grand Prix Final of his life and he wins with a score notoriously high.  _Ha,_ he wishes luck to whoever tries to beat his insurmountable records one day. But he wins gold at the NHK Trophy, and he was preparing to go back to the hotel and dish out on yummy Japanese food in order to fill that endless void.

 

It was terrifying… Leaving the ice as a competitor for good was something he feared. But his bones ached, his feet blistered and his lungs folded in on themselves on more than one occasion now. Viktor’s body was tired. Viktor couldn’t blame his body, his skin, the tired muscles weaving around his bones as he pulled them to their absolute _limit-_

 

But he’ll never really leave the ice. Leaving the ice was leaving everything else. He’ll find a way, for sure. He’ll be a judge or a commentator or a coach, anything, _anything_. Just don’t take the ice away from him. He had nothing. He had _nothing_.

 

(Maybe in another life, he had everything.  Maybe he would’ve given up skating competitively for good, maybe he would’ve gave up _everything_ , if it meant waking up next to someone with sleepy eyes and unruly bed hair. But unfortunately, Viktor doesn’t know this ‘other life’. Viktor doesn’t know. Viktor doesn’t know.)

 

He picks up his bag, hurries because Yakov was waiting for him outside, and prepares to leave the locker room area. He looks at his surroundings, knowing that this will be the last time he’ll see this musty locker room as a competitive skater, and he hopes that he didn’t have any regrets.

 

(He had so many. Most of them are the regrets he does not even remember.)

 

When he turns, someone is waiting for him by the door, brown eyes wide and expectant, little scarf wrapped around his neck like a Cabbage Patch kid. There was someone accompanying him, a woman with halfway bleached hair, her eyes searching and watching _everything-_

 

Viktor has never seen a person happier than that brown eyed man. His eyes shone behind his glasses, rosy blush caressing his cheeks and Viktor is suddenly hit with an endless sense of familiarity. He must be a fan, or a reporter, or a-

 

“Viktor?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Viktor… It’s me.”

 

Viktor… Is confused.

 

And a little suspicious at the same time.

 

(He refuses to acknowledge the screaming, _way_ back at the farthest corners of his head, where some unnamed hope jumps out of its chair and pleads to get out of the prison it’s in)

 

It’s like dropping a little pebble into a still pond. The tiny pebble could be the size of a fingernail, for the least, and it didn’t seem like anything insignificant. But the tiny pebble could create ripples, crashing waves, tsunamis bigger than ever before.

 

And Viktor felt like he should know this man.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

And it terrifies him.

 

It terrifies his more than anything.

 

It was like solving a puzzle, and you  _know_ how to solve it, but the pieces won't fit and it's all falling apart and-

 

“I…” He says, blue eyes feeling like they were going to fall out of his sockets. “I-“

 

“Vitya?” Yakov’s head pokes around the corner.

 

Yakov’s eyes widen.

 

Viktor has never seen Yakov this terrified in his life.

 

The man’s eyes swivel throughout the room, confused and disoriented.

 

“Viktor… Go get a cab. Wait for me outside.”

 

“B-But-“

 

“Now.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“He… He took beta blockers?”_

_“Yes. He’s forgotten about you now.”_

_“But… But why-“_

_“Listen. I know this is hard, but Viktor was having a hard time when you… you had an accident. It’s better if you leave him be; bringing back old memories that the beta blockers removed may damage his brain.”_

_“B-But… We-“_

_“Were in love? I’m sorry, but it’s too late._ ”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Viktor was thirty four years old and he wishes he could turn everything back.

 

Turn what back, you may ask?

 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

 

Sometimes, when he’s confused and dazed again, he stares at the golden ring around his finger as if it could answer all his questions. It doesn’t, of course, but Viktor does it anyways. It was like an unhealthy habit. But he doesn’t smoke. He doesn’t drink much either. Addictions weren’t his thing.

 

But he  _was_ addicted to one thing.

 

He sighs, his breath having any sound, feeling the snow collect in his hair, on his lashes. He feels the ring around his finger, caresses it, feels the bouts of comfort that came along with it. It was like it had magic powers, but no amount of magic could remove the churning in his gut.

 

He still wants that gold medal.

 

He doesn’t know why.

 

He’s won countless of gold medals before.

 

He had everything and nothing that he wanted.

 

But he still wants that gold medal.

 

Why, you may ask?

 

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

 

_Step step step step step step step step step-_

 

And all because of an accident and a coach who believed he was doing what’s right, Viktor Nikiforov lives the rest of his life with never ending want for something he cannot find.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

“Yura, no…”

 

“I swear to god I am going to fucking do it.”

 

“Yura, you can’t hit Yakov. If you do, I’m going to regenerate the memory anyways.”

 

“He’s the fucking root of all this. If he would’ve left his wrinkled hands to himself Viktor at least would’ve lived a happy life with Katsuki.”

 

“And  _how_ do you know that?”

 

“Because they’re _soulmates_. They’ll  _always_ find their way back to each other. Viktor would’ve remembered Katsuki at the NHK Trophy and they would’ve lived happily ever after.”

 

Otabek blinks, wondering how Yuri managed to be _this_ undeniably passive aggressive.

 

“Wow… I didn’t know you were the romantic type-“

 

“Shut up. I’m not.” Yuri glares at him. “Now, how are we going to do this? It seems impossible.”

 

Otabek runs a hand through his undercut, sighing.

 

“Now we know  _why_ he wants a medal, for the least.”

 

Yuri sighs, remembering the way the two lovesick idiots gazed at each other in front of that Barcelona church. It was like watching those sad movies where one of them actually has cancer, and then tears fall and teenage girls won’t stop making statuses about the movie quotes. It was horrifying, Yuri did _not_ want to deal with this-

 

“They wanted to marry each other.” Yuri murmurs, wondering why he’d felt any sort of sympathy for Nikiforov’s past. “They wanted to marry each other if they win gold. That’s why Nikiforov wants gold so bad, but he doesn’t know  _why_ because-“

 

“Of the beta blockers.” Otabek says, finishing with a sad little frown.

 

Yuri sighs, sits next to him on the bench. A few benches away from them, Nikiforov sits, searching for something he can’t find. He searches, and searches, and Yuri wonders how torturous it must have been. Viktor will push and pull, search and grab for that gold medal but he cannot find it. He’ll _never_ find it, no matter how many times he wins. He will win and win until his bones crack, until his skin melds with the ice-

 

“How will we input the drive? He’s won so many gold medals already, but he’ll never get satisfied until he marries Katsuki.” Otabek says, looking up at the moon with disbelief in his voice.

 

Yuri just sighs.

 

He remembers, back then when he was new, he tried to make a dying cancer patient’s wish come true. He wanted to go to the moon, he said, and it should’ve been fairly easy. Make the boy study to become an astronaut, then BAM! Finished. Pack up, we’re done.

 

But it wasn’t. Yuri has been proven wrong  _so_ many times that day. That man was nothing he’d expected. He’d watched as a man loses everything he had, everything he wanted, and Yuri realized that he didn’t have a chance to change things for the better. Yuri shouldn’t care, Yuri _wouldn’t care,_ but he watches the dream worlds crumble, and he wonders if it’s been his fault-

 

It was just like right now. Nikiforov was a hopeless case and he will be left on the shore, in the snow, searching and searching and searching. He didn’t have a chance to change things. He didn’t have the chance to go back to the past-

 

Yuri jolts, green eyes widening as he is hit by a thought.

 

Otabek just groans at the sudden movement. “What are you-“

 

“We can divert his  _past_ , Beka.” Yuri whispers, green eyes filled with hope. “If we change his memory sequence, fix up a few things, then we can-“

 

“Yura,  _no_.” Otabek says, eyes wide with disbelief. “You… You  _know_ we can’t alter memories manually. It might ruin his brain-”

 

“We don’t have a  _choice_.” Yuri says, eyes now glowing a certain sense of impatience. “We’re going to have to get Nikiforov a medal-“

 

“Yuri, no.” Otabek says, voice firm as he stares Yuri down, eyebrows furrowing. “I’m not allowing you this.”

 

Yuri rolls his eyes, discreetly grabbing the manual device in his pocket. Ha, Otabek wasn’t the  _only_ one who could input memories. Yuri was intelligent, far more smarter than anyone could peg him as…

 

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

 

And with his current determination, Yuri knows he can’t.

 

“Yura, NO!”

 

Yuri Plisetsky is gone in a flash.

 

Otabek growls and chases after him.

 

Nikiforov watches from his bench, eyes still searching.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

There are many things in life that Yuri Plisetsky wanted to change.

 

Like his hair color. Or his height. Maybe his inability to have patience.

 

Or maybe his inability to cook Pirozhkis right. Granted, he always cooked them perfectly, just not in the way his Grandfather made them.

 

But he couldn’t change that. Couldn’t change anything.

 

But he  _could_ change this.

 

He sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets, staring down at the cute little poodle. His beady little eyes stared up at Yuri, cocking one furry head to the side as if asking a question.

 

Reaching down, Yuri pets the dog.

 

He never really liked dogs in the first place. They were overly hyper and Yuri preferred cats much more. But right now, at this moment, Yuri feels like a monster.

 

You may think, dear reader, that this is Makkachin.

 

Yuri couldn’t help but smile as the little dog yips and licks his hand, unknowing of what Yuri was about to do.

 

This is not Makkachin.

 

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Yuri whispers, knowing what was going to happen next. He knows he shouldn’t feel this, knows that this is merely a fragment in Viktor’s imagination, knows that this isn’t real, but he feels like a monster.

 

“I’m sorry, but I have to.” Yuri murmurs, pulling back.

 

Vicchan whines.

 

He feels like a monster.

 

Yuri opens the Japanese sliding door and the dog runs away, yipping into the night. Soon, he’ll pass by the bridge, the town square, and into incoming traffic.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“ _Yuuri? I have something to tell you… It’s about Vicchan-“_

 

 

 

 

_“And now let’s take a look at Yuuri Katsuki, who earned a spot in the Grand Prix for the first time! Well, I must say, he didn’t perform like his usual self today. He was such on a good roll, but sadly, now he’s on the sixth spot at the Grand Prix Final.”_

 

 

 

 

_“My girls uploaded the video and it went viral! I’m so sorry.”_

 

 

 

 

_“Yuuri! Starting today, I’m your coach! I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final-“_

 

 

 

 

_“I want you to stay as you are, Viktor! I’ve… I admit I’ve ignored you, but that’s because I don’t want you to see my shortcomings! I’ll make it up to you with my skating.”_

 

 

 

 

_“This was the only thing I could think of to surprise you more than you surprised me.”_

 

 

 

 

_“Th… Thank you for everything, up to now…”_

_“I… I couldn’t think of anything better, but… I’ll be trying my best from tomorrow on, so…”_

_“Tell me something for good luck, please-“_

_“I love you.”_

 

 

 

 

_“Now now, this is only an engagement ring. We’ll get married if he wins gold at the Grand Prix Final.”_

 

 

 

 

 

_"I **really** want to kiss that gold medal. Don't you agree, Yuuri? _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

“With the power invested in me, I now pronounce you as husbands! You may now kiss.”

 

The church echoes with thunderous applause, echoing throughout the columns, shining with camera flashes and the two in front of the altar are now whole.

 

Yuri just sighs as he leans against the church column. He’d usually gag at the sight of people kissing and just generally showing affection to each other, but he’s too tired and parched to actually care.

 

(He'd never admit that he felt relieved and proud.  _Never_.)

 

Besides, Otabek gives him a look of disapproval as he watches the couple daze at each other, all the love in the world held in their eyes. It was like a scene that came directly out of a movie. In their circumstance, it probably was.

 

“You broke a company rule.”

 

The green eyed man just sighs, and Otabek wonders why he even bothered at all. 

 

“Do I look like I give a shit?” Yuri murmurs in a monotone voice, eyes watching the happy couple by the altar, their rings glinting even from afar. It was almost blinding. Otabek wasn’t even surprised. Yuri was impulsive and brash, but for once… he was thankful that he was.

 

Otabek just sighs, running a hand through his hair. Their lab coats and uniforms looked like an ugly contrast to the pastel wedding around them, doves and all. “He didn’t even  _win_ a medal.”

 

Yuri frowns, eyes looking down at the shiny church tiles, eyes deep in thought as he realized the situation, looking and searching to see if he’s failed again-

 

Then he realized that Viktor never said about ‘winning’ a medal.

 

Yuri bursts out laughing; he doesn’t stop until there are tears in his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Mila hands them both a basket of goodies. It was heavy and it held a lot of promising snacks. Their long journey back seemed a lot more bearable.“Mr. Nikiforov wanted to give these to you once you’re done.”

 

Yuri nods, getting the two baskets as Otabek loads up their beaten up truck in the background. Otabek was doing the 'carrying around bulky equipment' part again, and due to Yuri’s mentally exhausted state, the green eyed man was thankful. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”

 

Mila nods. “Only on his last thread of living though. The doctor is pulling him off life support today.”

 

Yuri sighs, eyeing the baskets in his hands. Mila looks back at the large manor; Viktor bestowed the large house to Mila and her family, and sighs at how dreadfully quiet it will be, with the ghost of a broken man wandering the halls.

 

“It’s sad, isn’t it?”

 

Yuri looks up, looks at the blue eyed woman who had a look of forlorn in her blue eyes. There are cake slices and Ferrero Rocher in the basket. There was nothing sad about it. “Why?"

 

Mila smiles at him, eyes a little tired. “You might’ve made him believe it was real. But it still didn’t happen.”

 

Yuri… agrees.

 

She was right.

 

No matter how bittersweet, how life changing, how perfect the dream world they made, it still was a dream. It’s nothing but a memory. It like this all the time, and no matter how many times Yuri and Otabek did it, the crushing reality would never fail to jolt them. It wasn't real. They didn't get married. And Viktor Nikiforov is still dying.

 

Yuri, he would never admit this, wanted it to be real.

 

He wanted them happy.

 

He wanted Nikiforov to get married to the man of his dreams.

 

But Nikiforov’s dying. Katsuki’s probably already dead, if not, roaming around somewhere-

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Mila and Yuri both jolt when they hear a voice, soft and old and beaten with time. They turn around, sees Otabek accompanying an old man with glasses as they approach the two.

 

“Mila, he’s looking for Mr. Nikiforov.” Otabek says, helping him with his rusty cane. Yuri looks at the old man, wrinkled and pale with a scarf covering his mouth.

 

His brown eyes blink up at them, hopeful behind his blue framed glasses.

 

Yuri is hit by a sense of déjà vu.

 

Mila blinks. “Why, sir?” Mila says, politely. The old man opens his mouth for a moment, as if looking for words, but he finds none.

 

Until he does.

 

“I’m… I’m an old friend.” He says, voice old and beaten by time and troubles. “I wish to see him one last time.”

 

Mila glances at the two, as if looking for confirmation. They don’t have any. Why would they?

 

“Sir, I’m sorry, but Mr. Nikiforov is unconscious and is on his last thread of life-“

 

“I know. I just… I just want to see him.”

 

Yuri glances at Otabek, the Kazakh glances back and shrugs. Yuri’s eyes narrow as he observes the old man, old and slow, probably has terrible vision. He had a cane and in his right hand was a golden wedding ring-

 

Yuri’s eyes widen.

 

Mila just sighs, smiles at the man softly. “I’ll assist you, sir.” The old man smiles in relief, small and weak. Mila faces the two, giving a warm smile.

 

“Yuri, Otabek, thank you so much. I hope we keep in touch.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“Yuuri! My love, I’m so proud of you! You finally have a gold medal-“_

_Yuuri Katsuki, Grand Prix Final gold medalist, removes the medal around his neck and loops it around Viktor’s._

_Viktor stares in shock and awe._

_Yuuri smiles._

_“Not just mine. It’s **ours**.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_“Viktor?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“Viktor… It’s me.”_

 

Viktor has a nice home, Yuuri thinks.

 

The manor looked seemingly small on the outside, but entering it is like entering a new world. Like entering a castle. Yuuri liked castles, back when he was still young and carefree, and he had always imagined living in one. He’d imagined running down the carpeted halls, barefoot, and golden chandeliers with fairy dust.

 

As he lived his life, he found out that things aren’t always going to end up that way.

 

Viktor has a lovely caretaker as well. She was nice and spoke to him softly and she helped him up the steps when he felt his hip acting up again. It was hard, but he’d gone through it all. He could take this.

 

He could take this.

 

What’s left of him enters the manor, his old shoes echoing throughout the lonely halls as the house awakens with his presence.

 

_Step step step step step step step step-_

“Do you want to see him immediately, sir?” Mila asks politely, blue eyes bright and innocent.

 

Yuuri just sits on a nearby couch, the leather creaking under his weight as he feels the tiredness of the trip seep into his bones.

 

“Can... Can I rest for a moment? I’ve had a long… a long journey.”

 

Mila nods. “Shall I get you some tea?”

 

Yuuri nods.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He remembers practicing that routine, late at night when he manages to go back to Hasetsu for once. Yuuko would sneak him in the rink, when it was silent and it was just him, and he’d let the light from his phone illuminate the surroundings. Viktor would swirl on the screen, beautiful and blinding.

 

And he’d do what he’s been doing for the majority of his life. He takes Viktor’s essence of artistry, tries to weave it through his own fingers and possibly try to replicate what Viktor’s made. He’d try, but nothing ever could replicate his genius. Nothing ever could.

 

But he does anyways.

 

But he’s in Sochi, and it’s late at night and he’s supposed to be sleeping because he has an early flight tomorrow. But he’s just won against _Viktor Nikiforov_ , possible love of his entire skating life and they kinda sorta glared at each other on the podium awhile ago, and he needs to vent all this energy out-

 

 _Clap clap clap clap clap_ -

 

Viktor Nikiforov stands there, when Yuuri has just thought that he was alone in this Russian rink. But he wasn’t. And the living legend is watching him, looking at Yuuri like Yuuri just hung up every star in the sky.

 

 

Mila comes back with a tray. There’s a steaming mug of tea. Ginger, Yuuri could smell it. Also, there’s a plate of cookies. His time here has already begun to be a little less miserable, and Mila sets the tray on the coffee table in front of him.  He reaches for the mug, old and wrinkly hand shaking. Back then he had long and bony fingers, graceful and steady.

 

Now he’s nothing but a mess.

 

“Are you alright, sir?” Mila asks, concerned as Yuuri raises the mug to his lips.

 

He’s not. But he tries to be.

 

He drops the mug, his hands failing him once more.

 

Yuuri hisses as the hot liquid scalds him, soaking through his clothes. Mila jolts, looking at him with concern lacing her features. She asks if he’s alright before running out to get a towel.

 

Yuuri hears his heart beat in his ears, like two different notes over and over again.

 

_Step step step step step step step step-_

Mila hands him a towel and Yuuri tentatively tries to dry himself. “I’m so sorry.” Yuuri sputters out. “I’m sorry.”

 

Mila smiles, sweet and soft and Yuuri wonders how good happened to maintain in this world. “It’s alright sir. You didn’t break anything.”

 

Yuuri can guarantee that he’s broken many, _many_ things before.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Viktor was beautiful. Beautiful in many ways and it would take decades for Yuuri to finish explaining it all. He would do so happily, though. Because everything that has to do with Viktor Nikiforov is marginally worthwhile.

 

Yuuri had always thought he wasn’t worthwhile.

 

He has two standard brown eyes, a tuft of dark unruly hair that Yuuri could never tame, and he’s not worthwhile. He was never worthwhile. He was just some skater who had dreams far too unattainable and somehow someway he got a lucky strike and managed to defeat his idol-

 

Yuuri was not worthwhile.

 

But Viktor made him feel worthwhile.

 

And who knew… that feeling worthwhile was such a lovely, lovely feeling.

 

 

 

 

 

Mila, bless her soul, asks if he wants a replacement for the tea. Yuuri shakes his head in fear of spilling all over himself again. Then she asks if he wants some dry clothes. Yuuri declines that too.

 

And Yuuri, while Mila was gone, looks outside the nearby window. The see through curtains are a little hindering to his already crappy vision, but he sees enough anyways.

 

The same old dingy Sigmund Corp van is still outside, sitting patiently.

 

Yuuri hopes they’ll still be there when he leaves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Viktor reaches out from the other end of the table, grasps Yuuri’s hand. The blue eyed man chuckles as Yuuri jolts, blush dusting his cheeks.

 

Yuuri flashes him an incredulous look, but the blush on his cheeks says otherwise. “Jesus Christ, we’re only on the second date.”

 

Viktor grins, sweet and warm. “And so? I like you.”

 

“How?”

 

“Like… A lot.”

 

Yuuri feigns a suspicious look, but he squeezes the hand that held his anyways. “Funny. Are you _sure_ you’re not just out to sabotage me?”

 

Viktor laughs, eyes filling with a certain twinkle. Yuuri has nearly seen every interview, every routine, every smile Viktor showed on screen. But somehow, Yuuri got the privilege to see _this_ one. And it was the best privilege of all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mila returns, sitting across from him with her own perspective mug of tea in her hand. “Are you alright sir? Do you need anything?”

 

Yuuri just smiles, soft and weak. “No thank you.”

 

They’re layered with a blanket of silence, echoing throughout the halls. Even when nothing surrounds him, nothing pressures him into submission, Yuuri feels like a coward more than ever. And he hates it. Hates himself. Hates what’s _happened-_

 

Mila sips her tea cautiously, observing him warily. Yuuri remembers being jittery and shy once, when he was young and still anxious. He’s anxious, still. But he’s old. And withering. But unlike many other elderly people, Yuuri doesn’t let the thought bother him too much.

 

“So… Um.” Mila says, accent on her tongue. Yuuri is hit by a vague sense of familiarity.

 

“Is it alright if I ask you on why you want see Mr. Nikiforov?” Mila asks, softly. “You don’t have to answer, sir! I’m… I’m just curious. I’m sorry-“

 

Yuuri chuckles, eyes growing fond. This woman kind of reminded him of himself back then.

 

“I wanted to see him…” Yuuri says, voice oddly quiet. _For one last time_. His mind adds, oddly quiet as well.

 

_Step step step step step step step-_

Mila makes a sound of approval, her mind whirling with thoughts. “Are you an old friend? I haven’t seen much of Mr. Nikiforov’s friends ever since I began to be his caretaker.”

 

Yuuri swallows, feeling gravel in his throat. It scratches his mouth, his esophagus, his mind. He finds it hard to find an answer, searching and searching.

 

_Step step step step step step step-_

 

“We haven’t seen each other for a while.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_We haven’t seen each other in so long._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are always rumors, of course.

 

When you’re (partially) famous and all, people often try to pry themselves in your cute little thing called ‘private life’, if you still have it, to be honest. Every move Yuuri made was always watched by some type of lenses, small or big.

 

And it unnerved him. It unnerved him that these people thought they had a say in Yuuri’s life.

 

They didn’t. They didn’t.

 

One night, Yuuri read an article once. Celestino once told him to never do so. Bad idea, he says. And Yuuri knew it was. But he reads it, anyways.

 

It was obviously clickbait. ‘ **Katsuki and Nikiforov Secret love Affair: Real or Not?** ’ were displayed with brightly colored letters. Lots of people viewed it, of course, even if they weren’t skating fans at all. Opening this stupid article was a mistake, and Yuuri made the undeniable mistake of them all: reading the comments.

 

Most of them were racial slurs from Nikiforov’s fans. ‘lmao he should just go back to eating rice’ others say. Yuuri gagged. The others were racial slurs from _his_ fans. ‘lmao he should just go back to drinking vodka’. Because in this world people were dumber and more shallow minded, and Yuuri wanted to jump out of the window.

 

The rest were homophobic slurs. ‘ew why would you ship them’ ‘don’t try to bring them into your fujoshi fantasies you pervert’ ‘they obviously like girls Nikiforov had a girlfriend back then ew’ and Yuuri’s personal favorite: ‘theyre not gay you piece of shit’

 

It was _hilarious_. Because not only Yuuri _was_ gay, but he’s also a piece of shit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Ah, may I ask what Mr. Nikiforov was like?” Mila asks, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “He’s very nice and mellow, I wonder how he was during his younger years.”

 

Yuuri’s eyes go unfocused, the brown distorting into a mess. Yuuri’s a mess.

 

He searches for words, searches, searches, searches-

 

How _was_ he during his younger years?

 

“Viktor…” Yuuri wheezes out, the name almost alien on his tongue. It hits him like a sledgehammer, hard and rough and _Viktor Viktor Viktor-_

 

Oh how often the name came from his lips back then.

 

“H-He… He was... selfish.”

 

 

 

_“Viktor, you didn’t have to buy me a whole new suit!”_

_Viktor looks at him through the bouquet of roses, eyes as bright as the stars. “But I wanted to! It’s your birthday! Also, I promised to burn that ugly tie you wore. Besides, what’s wrong with buying my boyfriend a suit?”_

_Yuuri stares at the suit, laden in a box looking like it was made by the finest ivory in the world. The inner broke college student in him could hear the hundreds of dollars crying in pain._

_“But… But this is Ralph Lauren!”_

_“And so?”_

_“This is $659.99.”_

_“And so?”_

_Yuuri sighs, boxing up the suit and tucking it under his arm, taking the extra bouquet Viktor had added in. “Viktor, thank you, but this is too much.”_

_Viktor just pouts and slings an arm over him, pulling him close. “What’s wrong with pampering you?”_

_Yuuri pouts, melting into his embrace. “Thank you. But you’re starting to turn into my sugar daddy.”_

_Viktor laughs, winking. “Do you want me to?”_

 

 

Yuuri swallows, feeling all sorts of passed, suppressed memories clogging his throat, clogging his _mind-_

 

“He was… He was also…” Yuuri fights the urge to keel over.

 

“He was also childish.”

 

 

 

_“Yuuri!!!”_

 

_Viktor Nikiforov never really rolled with the crowd. He never really let social norms muddle his mind. Viktor did what he wanted, when he wanted, on his own accord._

_And there was a way that Viktor said his name. Always that happy, cheery tone. Like Viktor followed it up with three other exclamation marks. No matter how he felt, how the situation was, Viktor always said his name differently. Yuuri could pick him out from a sea of a thousand people with no problems._

_And Viktor pulls him in. He always does. This time into his- **their** spacious living room, their two poodles yipping by their feet as Viktor twirls him around the room. He does this differently, _ every _time. And it takes Yuuri’s breath away_

_Yuuri is home._

Mila looks at him, concerned when Yuuri lets out a pained whimper. It wasn’t pained. It was numb. And yet, being numb was the worst feeling Yuuri had ever felt. Like a void. Like searching for something you can’t find.

 

“He was also very dense.” Yuuri lets out a sad, sad chuckle. It was painful to hear. “Sometimes he does things without even thinking it out first.”

 

 

 

_“I just… I just don’t get it.”_

_Viktor shushes him, wrapping his arms around Yuuri, who felt like the world was crushing down on him. “I’m here. I’m here…”_

_Yuuri lets out a choked whimper, years of unshed tears streaming down his face._

_“How did I happen to end up with you?” Yuuri’s voice echoes throughout the room, into Viktor’s heart. Viktor freezes at the statement._

_“I don’t deserve you.” Yuuri whispers, more tears falling down at every word. “I’m a mistake. I don’t deserve you. I don’t-“_

_Viktor extracts Yuuri from his hold._

_Yuuri is hit by a pang of fear._

_Until Viktor crawls on his lap, his larger frame almost dwarfing Yuuri all together, cupping Yuuri’s tearstained cheeks._

_“You’re an idiot.” Viktor says, staring deep into his eyes. “You are. I understand you’re having a panic attack right now but you really are. You’re an idiot and you’re blind to how much I actually need you.”_

_Yuuri is at loss for words._

_“You’re not a mistake.” Viktor says, eyes boring holes into Yuuri’s soul. “And goddamn it. Even if you were, you’re the best mistake I’ve ever made.”_

 

“Wow…” Mila says, voice breathy as he puts down her mug. “I didn’t know. Mr. Nikiforov seemed so _nice-_

“Oh he is.” Yuuri says, brown eyes unfocused. “He’s got a lot of good traits. A whole lot of bad ones, too.”

 

Mila blinks, eyes curious. “What bad traits?”

 

Yuuri smiles, pained but relaxed at the same time.

 

“Many, dear. But the worst one of them all was his forgetfulness.”

 

 

 

_“Viktor! You left the oven on holy shit-“_

_“Viktor, did you take the dogs out yet? No? I knew it.”_

_“Viktor, I can’t believe you forgot your own apartment’s combination.”_

_“V-Viktor…? Yeah, I’m… I’m here. Y-You had a nightmare? Yes, I love you. I’ll love you now and forever. Don’t forget that, okay?”_

_“Viktor?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“Viktor… It’s me.”_

 

Yuuri barely sleeps that night.

 

The happiness courses through his veins, the wistfulness keeps his eyes open, prying his eyelids awake and showing no signs of tiredness. He’s had this stupid, lovesick smile on his face and Celestino looks at him with concern from the other hotel room bed.

 

He caresses the golden ring again, and he smiles.

 

He’d do everything to get that gold. Anything.

 

And he knows it was ditzy and stupid, but he practices his wedding vows that night.

 

He never got to use them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Step step step step step step-_

Viktor’s hallways are so lonely; even Yuuri’s tiny footsteps could be heard echoing. Yuuri could almost imagine the blue eyed man wandering these halls all alone, and he wills the thought away before he spirals into anything deeper.

 

Mila leads him to the door by the end of the hallway. Yuuri is immediately drawn to it, and he knew why. Mila asks him if he wants to be left alone. Yuuri nods.

 

They deserved to be alone together, after all these years.

 

“You’re so unfair.”

 

The first words Yuuri says, staring down at the frail form. Old, withered, barely alive, and yet Viktor still glowed.

 

Yuuri sits down on a nearby chair, the worn fabric creaking under his weight. Yuuri has to take a deep breath just to steady himself, closing his eyes.

 

“You’re so unfair.”

 

Viktor was, in all of its validity. Viktor made people believe he was unfair, because he was beautiful and perfect, so unattainable and untouchable. And he made Yuuri love him. And it was _unfair._

“At least… That’s what I thought at first.”

 

Viktor still was, to be honest. Even when he has tubes up his nose and his skin is cracking, his long dull hair splayed underneath him messily. Viktor was so, so, _very_ unfair.

 

“And then you made me believe you were unfair.” Yuuri says, feeling the gravel rise up his throat, chking him until he spat out stone.

 

“But it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.”

 

Yuuri finally breaks. He’d prepared, of course, willing his courage and telling himself not to cry to early since he lnew he’d cry anyways. But he’s broken, and it’s pathetic. His voice quivers, his eyes shake, he’s hit with decades worth of pent up anger, fear, sadness, a strange concoction of it all. It was brutal. It hurts.

 

Yuuri shifts, taking the folded up piece of paper in his pocket. “So… Uh, one of Yakov’s granddaughters came to me a while back. Apparently he had a hidden request in his will when he died.”

 

Yuuri smiles softly, staring down at the yellowed paper in his hands. Anastasia was a lovely woman, and she apologized for the letter being years overdue. ‘ _we couldn’t find you’_ she said, but they did. And Yuuri finally knew.

 

“And… And you made me _believe_ it was your fault.” Yuuri whimpers out, voice oddly weak and quiet for someone his age. “I was hurting and… and Yakov knew you were hurting as well. And he wanted to take it all back. _I_ wanted to take it all back.”

 

Yuuri breaks even more, taking one hand to muffle his sobs.

 

“But… _god._ You were so unfair. You’re unfair, Vitya. I can’t believe we’ve been apart for… for _so long_.” Yuuri feels a hot tear stream down his cheek, year’s worth of pain and longing collecting onto that tear. Yuuri remembers crying one time, ugly and brash in the parking lot of somewhere in China, but surprisingly, he cried quietly now.

 

And he’s a coward. He’s _such_ a coward. He should’ve talked, should’ve approached, should’ve tried to make things better. But he didn’t. He never got to. But now he had the chance, and for all he knew, he could be talking to a dead body right now.

 

But he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care at all. He reaches out, takes Viktor’s cold and lifeless hand in his.

 

He breaks completely when he sees the golden ring, glinting in contrast to Viktor’s sheet white complexion.

 

It takes some time. It takes some time to mend himself all over again. Mila could hear his sobs through the door, echoing throughout the lonely house. Yuuri feels at home all over again, all of his past fears thrown out of the window.

 

“You’re a giant man child, Nikiforov.” Yuuri says, tears still hot on his cheeks.

 

“But you’re mine. Do you remember?”

 

No one answers.

 

Yuuri rubs a weak thumb over the wrinkled skin. Viktor used to have skin that was softer than a baby’s, back when they were young and in love. Viktor was still ethereally beautiful, and it was _unfair._

 

“Right? Do you remember?” Yuuri whispers, as if not letting anyone hear but the two of them. “You sneaked us in an empty rink after Worlds… and you thought me how to do a pair skate of Stammi Vicino. Do you remember that? The routine that brought us together?”

 

Yuuri lets out a sad whimper. It shocks him how he managed to survive the past decades without this man.

 

“Please, tell me you remember.” Yuuri feels his heart contract. He’d usually take his medication, but he doesn’t give a fuck about his weak heart for the moment.

 

“You _have_ to remember…” Yuuri whispers out, lifting Viktor’s hand, kisses his cold knuckles, just like the way Viktor did one night at an airport. Viktor’s hand gets stained by a few tears.

 

“But it’s alright if you don’t.” Yuuri uses his other hand to wipe away the tears running down his face. They get replaced by new ones. “It’s not your fault if you forget.”

 

“And… And even if you do,” Yuuri runs his thumb over the golden ring, remembering the day he slipped it on like it was yesterday. “I’ll always love you. I… I admit, I tried to move on.”

 

Yuuri grimaces at the late night thoughts when he was young. Crying and sobbing into his pillow, wondering of all the things, Viktor Nikiforov chose to forget him. And he decided to forget him as well.

 

He never did. He never did.

 

“But I never did. I never forgot you. And even if you forgot _me_ , it’s alright.” Yuuri smiles, tears crinkling against his smile.

 

“I love you. I always will. Until I lose my sight all together, until I can’t walk at all, until my last, dying breath.”

 

 _Till death do us part_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yuuri sees blue.

 

He sees blue all the time. Like the sky, or a beautiful ocean, or maybe those spicy mints he eats from time to time. Blue is everywhere and it’s just like every other color, but Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t follow just any social norm. Viktor’s blue is always different, always unique, Yuuri could pick out Viktor’s blue from a stormy sea.

 

And even when he’s dying, Viktor’s blue always managed to shine.

 

“Viktor?”

 

Silence.

 

“Huh?”

 

Yuuri swallows, brown eyes shaking as he stares at the stirring old man.

 

“Viktor… It’s me.”

 

Viktor’s blue eyes were disoriented, lost, like he was searching for something he can’t find…

 

His eyes lock to Yuuri.

 

And after all this time, he’s finally found it.

 

Viktor breaks out in a soft smile, like he was seeing the stars for one last time before they all crash down on him. His eyes light up, like an unmistakable blue in the spectrum. Yuuri nearly falls off the chair, but the weak hand in his’ kept him steady.

 

Yuuri couldn’t speak.

 

Yuuri knew he could speak.

 

Yuuri knew he _should_ speak.

 

But he doesn’t.

 

“Ah…” Viktor’s voice was broken and steady at the same time.

 

“My… My beautiful… Husband…”

 

Yuuri breaks all over again.

 

Yuuri feels Viktor squeeze his hand, even if it was just one weak little movement. It sends another batch of tears down his face, his sobs echoing throughout the room. Viktor looks confused at Yuuri, who was a sobbing mess.

 

“Why… Why are you… crying?” Viktor wheezes out, voice cracking. “Did… Did you have a night… a nightmare again?”

 

Yuuri nods, hoping that he’ll just wake up from this painful dream and into Viktor’s arms.

 

“I’m… I’m here. Don’t… Don’t worry.” Viktor smiles, soft and weak.

 

“I’m here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Otabek looks at Yuri curiously, raising one eyebrow as they trudge up the hill with their shoes burying in the dirt. They’re supposed to be on the plane ride home now, but _somebody_ said that they should ‘pay their respects to the idiot one last time’.

 

Yuri notices him looking, gives him a hard look. “What?”

 

“We’ve had many customers before.”

 

“And so?”

 

Otabek gestures to the bouquet of flowers in his hand. There was another in Yuri’s they had to bring two because ‘equality’.

 

“I don’t know… It’s the first time you wanted to visit one of their graves-“

 

“Oh shut up.”

 

Otabek shuts up.

 

The reach the top of the hill where Nikiforov was buried. Yuri knew that the man was an extra fuck since he wanted his tombstone with all these extra additions. Like a ball pit filled with chew toys for random dogs to play with.

 

They’re not alone.

 

They knew it was Katsuki who was standing there, scarf whipping in the wind. He had this beanie and medical mask on, as if he was some Clark Kent with a secret identity to protect.

 

Otabek freezes, eyes widening.

 

“It’s him.”

 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “Duh.”

 

Otabek purses his lips, narrowing his eyes as Yuri starts to approach the man. “Yura, don’t do anything stupid-“

 

“Hey you!” Yuri barks out.

 

Yuuri doesn’t even flinch.

 

Yuri clenches his fist, the bouquet in his hand nearly crumbling.

 

“You both could’ve been happy, you know?” Yuri hisses through his teeth.

 

Don’t look at him like that. He doesn’t _care_ about their stupid little tragedy. Yuri’s visiting Nikiforov’s grave but _not_ because he _cares_. Yuri’s angry at Viktor’s stupid coach but _not_ because he _cares._ He’s also slightly pissed a Katsuki for not doing anything but _not_ because he _cares-_

Don’t look at him like that.

 

Katsuki turns around, almost reminiscent of Viktor when they approached him by the beach.

 

Yuuri’s eyes hold all the love in the world, but they’re broken.

 

“So what?” Yuuri murmurs, turns around weakly. “He’s dead. There’s nothing I could do.”

 

Yuri seethes. “You _could’ve_ done something. _Anything!_ ”

 

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

 

Otabek catches up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

“We’re sorry, Mr. Katsuki.” Otabek says, narrowing his eyes at Yuri. “Yura’s just a little wound up. He was deeply invested in granting Mr. Nikiforov’s wish.”

 

“I was _not!_ ”

 

Yuuri just chuckles, shoulders softly shaking.

 

_Step step step step step step step step-_

Yuuri just sighs, inhales the breeze whipping around them.

 

It was a tragic end, but all ends were tragic, weren’t they?

 

The brown eyed man faces the two, eyes holding a promise.

 

“Is there any way for me to sign up for a contract?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep._

Yuuri groans, legs tangled into the sheets as he fumbles to _destroy_ his goddamned alarm clock. He nearly falls off the bed in doing so. It was _way_ too early for this. Vicchan was already whining in the corner, hungry as his slob of an owner attempts to wrangle himself off the mattress.

 

Suddenly, like an octopus, Viktor Nikiforov latches onto him before he could even swing one foot off the bed.

 

Yuuri is not even _surprised._

 

“Mhm, morning…” Viktor grumbles, low and deep into his neck. Yuuri tries not to giggle as his stubble tickles his soft skin. He fails, and Yuuri had to softly swat Viktor’s bicep.

 

“Vitya, get off!”

 

“No.”

 

Yuuri frowns, already knowing that his husband wouldn’t budge, he wiggles a bit so he’s lying between Viktor’s legs, both of them face to face.

 

Yuuri might’ve thought that Viktor’s blue was unmistakable, but little did he know that Viktor thought the same about Yuuri’s brown too.

 

Viktor reaches out, brushing away Yuuri’s unkempt hair. Viktor liked it like this, liked it in _every_ way. Mussed, neat, unruly, slicked back, Viktor loved Yuuri in _every_ way. And Yuuri’s brown eyes were like different shades of copper, never the same with others, Viktor could pick Yuuri out in the midst of a crowd of thousands.

 

They lace their hands together, golden rings glinting on both sides, and they share a kiss, drowsiness and morning breath and all.

 

They’re both finally home.

 

They both finally found each other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall wanted pain. ill give you pain.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the recognition and comments! God _damn_ I never knew ya'll would like it so much. 
> 
> Also the lovely Kou made some [art!](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com/post/161421427492/viktor-was-thirty-four-years-old-and-he-wishes-he) Holy shit Kou, how are you even real uwu
> 
>  
> 
> [check out my shit tumblr, yall](https://jmoncheri.tumblr.com)


	3. Epilogue

_I wish I could be with my husband longer._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Stupid couple… Both of them are idiots! Must he word it like that?!” Yuri says, staring down at the resting form on the bed. A few months and a plane ride towards Japan and here they are.

 

Yuri looks around the Japanese household, almost remembering a beady eyed little dog, and he tries to will the shiver down his spine away. For the second time that day, he had to tell himself that it wasn’t real.

 

It wasn’t real.

 

“It doesn’t seem _that_ confusing, though.”

 

“Are you _kidding_ me? Anyone else would be confused! He’s not even fucking married! And he had the right to say something about ‘intuition’ and ‘professionalism’.”

 

“Well, he did ask for us personally.” Otabek said coolly, and Yuri just groaned into his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Viktor was there.

 

Well… Viktor was _always_ there, someway, somehow. Always plaguing Yuuri’s mind, a ghost on his finger, a chaste kiss on his forehead. Viktor was _always_ there, just not in the way Yuuri wanted.

 

But he was. He’s here.

 

Same smile, same worry tinted blue eyes, and Yuuri knew he had to make it count, he had to say something. But it’s just too much. Sandpaper suddenly replaces his tonsils and they scratch and bristle, no words coming out.

 

Suddenly he felt like twenty again, waking up from a seventy year long nightmare, chest heaving and eyes brimming with tears. He looks around. There is no piano.

 

But there’s Viktor. Viktor’s _here_.

 

Back then, Viktor would hug him silently, letting him play the two notes as he sorted himself out, Vicchan and Makacchin whining on their feet. The night would end in two ways: Viktor makes him some hot chocolate and they watch some late night soap opera on the coach or Viktor carries him back to bed, holding him close, whispering sweet nothing into his ear and _yes, I love you._

Yuuri had no doubt that if he could, Viktor would sit up too and pull him to his chest, just like that time when they were living together.

 

That time when they were _home_.

 

“… let me… tell you a secret.”

 

Viktor’s voice was weak and hollow, like knocking in a hollow drum. It echoes, hoarse and barely hanging onto his voice box but it echoes in Yuuri’s mind, through Yuuri’s very heart. Yuuri tries not to shatter, but he does.

 

“I-I had a night… n-nightmare… too.”

 

“I… I dreamt I… I-I forgot about you.”

 

“I saw you… and… I… forgot.”

 

 

“Even though you said… to not forget…”

 

Viktor lets out a weak cough, sounding painstakingly coarse and pained. Yuuri could feel the tears running a hot stream down his flesh, he’s hoping that Viktor’s vision would be too shitty to see him break.

 

_Oh Viktor… You did. You did forget._

 

“I’m sorry… Yuuri.”

 

If Yuuri had doubt before that Viktor was mistaking him for someone else, it disappeared the moment he heard his name from his love’s lips. Broken and trembling, his blue eyes almost vacant. But they held the universe, shining like the time they made a lifelong promise in front of a Barcelona Church.

 

“… I’m sorry, love.”

 

Viktor wheezed. The monitors started to beep irregularly.

 

“A… aah…”

 

“D-Don’t… worry.”

 

“No… no…! I…”

 

“I’m here… I’ll always…”

 

With that small smile still plastered on his face, Viktor Nikiforov closed his eyes, as if he’s just dozed off. But he seemed happy, at peace, no longer stuck in a nightmare.

 

Viktor Nikiforov finally finds his sweet dream.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s hard watching… _all_ that from sidelines.

 

Mila steps in when she’s _certain_ that she hears the flat lines. Oh, how thin the walls of this manor had. Even the very depths of despair echoed throughout, even if it was just a single pebble dropped in a lake. It echoed, thunderous, and Mila wondered how these two men managed to live on.

 

“Another bad trait of him, dear. He’s a sleepyhead.” The old man said with hysterical laugh.

 

“… let’s not bother him anymore, shall we?”

 

The monitors had shown flat lines for a while now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So we’re going with this scenario?”

 

“The pig said ‘ _longer’_  right? I’ll take it that he didn’t want to change what happened before. Or what? You disagree?” Otabek just raises an eyebrow, amused little smirk on his face, but shook his head nevertheless.

 

“Well, let’s just see how it goes.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yuuri Katsuki was twenty eight and could only hear ringing in his ears.

 

_“Viktor…”_

 

_“Huh?”_

_“Viktor, it’s me.”_

 

It’s like a nightmare.

 

It… It _was_ a night mare.

 

Yuuri wanted to wake up.

 

It didn’t take long for Yakov to find out, of course. It also didn’t take long for him to break and contact Yuuri with a despaired look on his face.

 

The love of his life was sitting next to him, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, as he listened to the explanation from his coach, rinkmates, lawyer and doctors. Apologies, excuses, and possible solutions, but Yuuri was just too shocked to listen to them all.

 

Well, at least _someone_ was listening.

 

Yuuri kept his eyes down, his hands folded in fists on his lap. He used to caress it, back when he woke up from a who-knows-what long coma, and it gave him relief, knowing that Viktor was waiting for him somewhere.

 

So he caresses it, thumb brushing over the metal, golden ring glinting under the light, and it brought tears to his eyes when he noticed that Viktor was also wearing its pair.

 

“… I’m sure it’s hard to take in, Mr. Nikiforov, but-“

 

“No.”

 

Yuuri’s breathing hitched in his throat.

 

His anxiety flared up in full force, choking him.

 

_No. I don’t want him. He’s ugly and stupid and he hurt himself badly over some jump. No. I don’t want him. He’s my rival and he’ll never amount to who I am. No. I don’t want him-_

 

It’s not the first time beta blockers were used illegally. Yuuri had heard several times in the news, of how criminals gave the memory blocking medicine to their victims. That’s why there’s hope. It’s not exactly irreversible, however, but with Sigmund Corp’s cooperation, the risk of brain damage would be considerably lower too.

 

It’s not unheard of.

 

But it’s not unheard too for the victims to choose to not remember. To deny everything that had happened.

 

Yuuri bit his lower lip and screwed his eyes shut, and he prepared to get shattered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It explained everything.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It started slow, at first.

 

It was understandable for the least. Skittish glances, blushing, overly courteous deeds. _You go first, no you go first, I really don’t mind I can hold open the door-_

 

They were both going to go insane. With the distance, with the shyness, with each other's  _presence-_

 

But eventually, _eventually_ , they molded back into each other.

 

It doesn’t take long, at least.

 

It all starts when Yuuri sucks it up and gently, _gently_ , slides his hand in Viktor’s.

 

Viktor smiles and squeezes back, their golden rings glinting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila, tis the end! I'm thanking to EVERYONE WHO HAS COMMENTED AND HOLY SHIT, THOSE WHO RECCED ME. BLESS ALL OF YOU. I AM SHOOKENETH. THIS EPILOGUE WAS CO WRITTEN BY [KOU](https://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com) AND I AM IN LOVE. [HERE](http://jmoncheri.tumblr.com/post/161613466976/i-wish-i-could-be-with-my-husband-longer-stupid) IS THE ORIGINAL EPILOGUE SHE WROTE. SHE ALSO DREW THESE TWO LOVELY PICS [HERE](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com/post/161421427492/viktor-was-thirty-four-years-old-and-he-wishes-he) AND [HERE](http://shitsumon-abound.tumblr.com/post/161580754562/my-my-beautiful-husband-to-the-moon-by) AND AHHHHHG
> 
> Also, for those who ask me, what's the deal with the homophobia? Why'd you gotta ask it JMon? Why do they have to hide? It doesn't make sense???
> 
> Well, in this universe the homophobia is still quite fresh. In the near future people will be more accepting of it and such, but not in Yuuri and Viktor's generation. Plus, they're icons of figure skating and they need their images. 
> 
> Which is also the reason why the dream sequence had no homophobia. Like in yoi. It's all a dream.
> 
> I'm thanking everyone who helped and inspired me in writing this! I'm also (not) apologizing for all the hearts I shattered. But writing this was a fun experience and I'm glad that people loved it!
> 
>  
> 
> [see you next level!](https://jmoncheri.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> ALRIGHT ALRIGHT, for those who DO know the game, lemme just say this one thing: I'm sorry.
> 
> I know the elements in this fic are far different from the game. Eva and Niel went _backwards_ in time, starting from his adult years and to his childhood. I know this is the opposite of it, and I needed it to be so it'll fit the story. There are also game mechanics that i changed, mementos are easier to input, etc. etc. Please don't be mad if the elements are wrong! The game isn't supposed to align with this fic, just a few elements and the overall concept of it all.
> 
> And if you don't know To the Moon, then what the heck?!?!?!?!! I cried?!?!?!?!??!?! It's a FANTASTIC game with beautiful and complex plot! Go play it or watch a walkthrough online!
> 
> Also I am planning an epilogue to this, but it depends on the reader's response. So please tell me if you want one! Comments are very lovely <3
> 
>  
> 
> [check out my shit tumblr, yall](https://jmoncheri.tumblr.com)


End file.
